


Altera Vita

by Songbirdsara



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Colors, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Reincarnation, Reverse Bang, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songbirdsara/pseuds/Songbirdsara
Summary: In every life, the soul who will be known as Victor Nikiforov meets and loves the soul who will be known as Katsuki Yuuri.In every life, they are torn apart.Except one.***A story of love that lasts through many lives, no matter the struggle.Each vignette centers around the concept of a color in the rainbow.Written for the 2019 YOI Big Bang.A million thank yous toPeppyBismilkfor the amazing work as Beta/Editor





	1. A Scarlet Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warning: Temporary Major Character Death, mentions of violence.

As it goes in all great love stories, in the beginning, there is an absence. A lack. A missing piece from the prism of the soul.

A void to be filled.

_Black._

*****

Legend tells us that soul mates are created when one soul is torn in two, leaving the two pieces to wander through their lifetimes, constantly seeking their missing half. These mated souls wander throughout time, circling each other’s stories, slotting the scattered pieces together until finally (be it after one, a few, or many cycles), they become whole once more; absence and lack sublimated into a joyful _presence._

The prism complete.

The void filled.

Victory.

****

And so, we open our tale, peering upon the first of many fragments in the spectrum of our lovers’ journey.

***

**

*

 

 

**_A Scarlet Haze_ **

 

He blinked, sudden pain a bright slash across his morning as crimson droplets spread over the surface of his basin. Hissing out an oath, he dropped the sharp blade he used to scrape the stubble from his face, pressing a scrap of soft cloth to the trickling wound. Fascinated, he gazed once more into the now still water, bright blue eyes a startling contrast to the pale features reflected back at him, washed in a scarlet haze.

 

Dashing the alarming vision from his washbasin, the tall Commander of the Guard turned away, tying his long, silvery fall of hair back with a leather thong as he completed his morning ablutions. Still, the strange image stayed in the back of his mind… His grandmother would have called it an omen, although such superstitions merited no credence in this modern era. He laughed to himself, the low chuckle loud in the quiet of the new day. If his Lord, or worse–his _protégé_ could hear his thoughts, surely he’d be relieved of his duties by the ‘morrow.

 

At nearly three decades, he knew himself to be old for his position. He’d managed to prove himself in the last challenge, but the slight ache in his knees and wrist belied the nimbleness with which he’d fought. Surely it was only a matter of time before his snarling kitten of a trainee was ready to ascend to his place. He strapped on his curved blade, silently vowing not to give in a moment sooner than he had to. After all, without his status, he had nothing.

 

***

The trader bowed before the Lord’s high seat, displaying the expensive silken cloths and threads that were so treasured by the Rus nobility. The merchant’s guards stood in silence behind him, their dark, foreign eyes faintly threatening. One, at the far left, caught his gaze, exotic features strangely compelling: high cheekbones and a strong jawline juxtaposed with warm eyes the color of worn leather. The man caught him staring, holding his gaze for a long moment before turning sharply away, the faintest hint of vermillion highlighting his cheeks.

 

An answering flush warmed his own face and he silently cursed himself for the momentary distraction. Lovely or not, the other guard was a threat to his master until his Lord deemed it otherwise. Still…he couldn’t resist another quick glance in the foreigner’s direction, unreasonably pleased to find those warm eyes following suit. He rather hoped his Lord would accept the trader’s services for the season…

 

***

Wine flowed that evening, the Lord opening his barrels to welcome the newcomers. The merchant had offered great bolts of silken cloth, the likes of which were rarely seen in these realms. The journey from the trader’s homeland was long and dangerous, adding to the rarity and worth of his wares. The negotiations for the materials and the fittings for new apparel would take months, with the merchant and his entourage settling in to be treated as visiting royalty.

 

He was glad. The intriguing guardsman would be staying for some time…a spark of interest adding a rosy tint to his slowly dulling life. He peered through the crowded hall, hoping for a glimpse of the man, disappointed when the search proved futile. Checking to see that his men were well situated around his Lord, he made his way through the throngs of revelers, suddenly desperate for a breath of cooler air. As he rounded the corner of the Great House, he found even more reason to rejoice in his decision.

 

“I see I’m not the only one seeking peace this evening,” he chuckled, his voice drawing a gasp of surprise from the raven-haired guardsman leaning against the wall. The man colored prettily, his warm eyes darting around in alarm. “I don’t blame you. The crowds can be daunting,” he mused. Dark brows furrowed, a picture of confusion.

 

He stepped closer, pleased when the other man didn’t retreat. Brushing a long lock of silky black hair out of the guard’s face, he sighed. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you, sweet one?” Tawny eyes locked on his lips as they moved, slender neck bobbing in a long, slow swallow. Desire rose in him and he brushed a careful thumb over the guard’s plush mouth. “Perhaps there’s another language we could share, hmmm?”

 

He’d been alone for so long…rarely trusting himself to the throes of passion; life and love sublimated by his duties. He felt reckless tonight, caught up in a magnetic pull that bore no trace of logic. One sign from this beautiful stranger and he’d tilt off the precipice into what was surely madness…

 

The guard tilted his head down, peering up at him through long, soot-dark lashes as a soft, pink tongue darted out, curling around his thumb and welcoming it between impossibly lush lips.

 

Gods, he was lost already…

 

***

Language was shared slowly between them; brief phrases learned in those stolen moments he spent nestled between a pair of perfect thighs.

 

Gasped prayers gave way to chanted names gave way to choked confessions of love.

 

In the infinite space between each incandescent high, he knew his happiness could never last.

 

***

“For you. For luck. To remember,” his lover whispered, tying the gift around his wrist—an intricately braided silken cord now throwing a splash of ruby against his fair skin.

 

“Oh, my perfect one, I could never forget you,” he choked, heart heavy. The merchant would leave on the ‘morrow, taking his guards with him back on the road, purse heavy and cart light after his season in their hold.

 

They held each other close, one last time, the dark of night stretching into dawn as they lay awake in each other’s arms, neither willing to miss one dwindling second.

 

***

“Thank you for your many years of service to my family,” his Lord was saying, the words buzzing in his ears. “Please take this token of my thanks…”

 

He wasn’t listening, the bag of coin a strange weight in his hand. His protégé…his _replacement_ watched him with narrowed, jewel-bright eyes. So young. Would this life consume him as well? He should feel rage or grief…

 

All he felt was relief. The silk merchant’s entourage had left only days ago. On a fast horse he could catch them, could follow his lovely one out on the road…

 

***

He’d never ridden so fast. The chiming of his steed’s hooves rang a song in his head, each beat drawing him closer to his prize; his life, his love… He’d grown so numb to the sounds of the outside world that he almost missed the change in the chiming… Mixed in with the hoofbeats now was the sound of metal on metal, shouting voices piercing his reverie.

 

He drew up short in horror, his eyes processing what his ears had not. Bandits. The silk trader’s road was dangerous, more so now that he was homeward bound and laden with coin. In the thick of the desperate battle, his angel still stood, streaks of crimson staining his perfect features.

 

Mind awash in a scarlet haze of rage, he barreled into the fray, sword drawn as he approached the dwindling cluster of guards grouped around their leader. He lost himself in the bloodlust, mindlessly cutting through the enemies that stood between him and his heart. The ringing finally faded from his ears as the last of the bandits fell. His weary arm dropped. A hand on his shoulder startled him and he whirled in time to catch his collapsing lover.

 

He sank to his knees cradling the fallen man, heart sinking at the sight of a hand clutched desperately to the blooming gut wound.

 

“You…came…”

 

He could feel his heart breaking; the words were so faint as they fell from those lovely lips. “Oh, my precious one. I should never have let you go…”

 

“…Love…you…”

 

“Please, no,” he sobbed, the tears he hadn’t cried since childhood spilling copiously now. “Don’t leave me alone, stay with me…” A cold hand pressed tremblingly to his cheek as the dark lashes fluttered. “I’ll find you. I swear, I’ll find you again,” he vowed, clutching desperately at the shaking form in his arms. “I love you…always…”

 

A soft smile passed over his beloved’s features and those warm eyes held his one last time before their glow faded.

He pressed his lips to the cool brow for a long moment. “I’ll find you again,” he repeated desperately before throwing back his head and keening his sorrow to the skies.

  
  



	2. Warm, Like Candlelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely response to the first chapter! 
> 
> We're continuing our 'Rainbow' theme now with the color orange!

Warm, Like Candlelight

***

He is an unusually graceful child; his fingers long and elegant, voice sweet and lilting. _God-touched_ , murmur his family, admiring the odd silver sheen to his fine hair, the bright blue of his eyes. A gentle soul, claim the villagers, citing his kind nature and easy, heart-shaped smiles.

 

Which is just as well. Third-born sons are a luxury for the wealthy of their village: a son to inherit, a son to further the family name in a career, a son to appease the church.

 

He is blissfully unaware of his future; he spends his days curled on the worn wooden bench, watching his mother sew or his father work, the crackle of the fire and scratching of the quill inevitably lulling him to sleep. It is a peaceful existence, unmarred by conflict, save for boyish squabbles between his older brothers. They seem to know to leave their peaceful little brother to himself, though he sometimes wishes they’d include him in their boisterous play.

 

Change is marked in his life not by conversation or communication from his parents but by the arrival of a pair of men who, to his young eyes, seem ancient beyond words. Still, they are kindly as they speak to him in low voices, turning his slender hands over in their calloused ones, judging him for some quality he cannot yet fathom. When they leave, he leaves too, tucked between them like a wayward duckling. His parents make no protest, the only sign of concern a few tears in the corners of his mother’s pale eyes.

 

“You belong to God now,” his father says solemnly, patting his silver floss in a sort of parting benediction. His mother and brothers say nothing at all.

 

He never sees any of them again.

 

***

He rooms now with other boys close to his own age, quieter than his blood brothers but no less distant. They eye him with disfavour when the Brothers are not watching, whispering behind their hands of his strangeness. There are no looking glasses in their rooms, so he is unaware that he has grown into a creature of ethereal loveliness; his long limbs and fair, fine features set him irrevocably apart from the stockier, darker boys from the nearby farming communities. He only knows that he is far lonelier than he had been in his own home.

 

He takes to wandering the quiet halls when he has no other duties or lessons, his light footsteps leading him eventually to a room filled with near-silent Brothers, hunching in their ochre robes over low tables lit with warm candlelight and covered in parchment and small clay pots. He is drawn frequently to this room, creeping almost silently closer until one day he is caught by one of the Brothers who had first brought him to the monastery. When he hunches, fearing punishment for his disobedience, the man smiles and holds out a hand in invitation.

 

Curious, he creeps closer, a sense of awe suffusing him as he takes in the product of the Brother’s labour. Bright colours dance across the parchment, curled figures neatly weaving across the page. He cannot make sense of their meaning, but he is drawn to the glistening paint and ink, nonetheless.

 

“Would you like to learn?” the Brother asks softly.

 

He nods, eager.

 

***

Life changes again.

 

The envious glances and whispers do not cease, but he spends less time with the acolytes his own age and more in the company of the soft-spoken Brothers. He learns of a God he cannot comprehend, of rules that do not seem to concern his own life. He bows his head in prayers he slowly learns to understand, is taught the letters that shape those prayers. His first scratching attempts at the beautiful shapes he initially admired are ugly, misshapen things. He is taught not to hate his own clumsiness, but to continue to strive to copy the graceful shapes, to cast glory to God with the long, graceful fingers he has been granted.

 

Time passes and he grows tall and slender and forgets his own name. He is gifted with another, along with a set of his own scratchy ochre robes. He gains his own small cot in a tiny but blissfully solitary room, along with a set of fine boar’s hair brushes and clay paint pots. He takes his place among the quiet Brothers, carefully illuminating the texts that carry the holy words to other eyes and ears, other places. The candles that light their work burn smokeless—expensive gifts from families that have no third sons to cast upon the altar of the Lord.

 

One day he realizes, with some surprise, that it has been months since he has last spoken aloud.

 

***

He does not struggle with the rules that govern his life, having no innate desire to blaspheme or to indulge in gluttonous behaviours. He is not envious by nature, nor is he prone to anger, righteous or otherwise. And as for celibacy…

 

He doesn’t understand at first why the older Brothers seem reluctant to allow him tasks that carry him into the nearby villages alone. Only after his first expedition, the greedy eyes of the young men and women dragging against him like strange, clutching claws, does he realize that it is not _his_ impulses that are of concern. Still, he feels no stirrings of desire to follow through on the heated glances they offer.

 

Lust, it seems, is not one of his failings. Talks of love and of soulmates are for others, not for him. Or so he believes.

 

Until _he_ arrives.

 

***

A traveling Brother returns, a dark-eyed foreigner in tow. The boy, bordering on the cusp of manhood, flinches when anyone looks his way. The stranger cannot speak in their tongue, does not seem to comprehend their words or gestures, and yet, his meek, almost desperately hopeful manner is instantly endearing and strangely familiar. The boy’s hands are long and graceful, and the disheveled hair and long lashes are the same blue-black as the fine ink used to inscribe the Holy words. Warm eyes shine with the same glow as the fine candles in the workroom.

 

Something deep in his gut aches and he suddenly feels as if he is in the presence of something divine. It feels like coming home to a place he never knew he’d lost. He feels as if he is _burning_ and his tongue is dry, his throat aching. The boy is _beautiful_ and for the first time in many years…

 

He _wants._

 

***

He is not sure if it is a blessing or a curse when he is assigned to mentor the new acolyte, the drab brown robes somehow rendered charming by the inky hair and pale skin. The boy’s innate shyness and lack of a shared language are less burdensome than he had worried, but the questioning gazes and shyly bitten lips are a source of constant late-night turmoil.

 

The first real breakthrough in communication comes the day he brings the foreign acolyte with him into the writing room. The younger boy’s eyes light up in excitement, dazzling him with a glory the likes of which he hadn’t imagined a mortal capable. Curious, he places a piece of scrap parchment in front of the boy, passing him one of his precious brushes and a pot of ink. Amber eyes glittering, the boy watches as the young Brother carefully dips his brush before trailing it across another scrap, pressing words into the parchment.

 

His bright blue eyes widen as the boy sticks a pink tongue between impossibly plush lips before picking up his own brush and dabbing it into the pot.

 

“Ohhhh,” he breathes in awe as he admires the finished product.

 

“Oooohhhh,” the boy imitates, his lips curling strangely, provocatively, around the vowel.

 

A near perfect copy lay beside his own work, an excellent mimicry despite the barriers to communication.

 

He feels a twinge of jealousy at the easy perfection of the boy’s fingers.

 

…another sin.

***

The boy becomes his brown-robed shadow, mimicking both his language and his work. Months pass, then years, the boy’s robes eventually being traded from the brown of the acolyte, to the ochre of a Brother.

 

There comes a point where he can no longer refer to his Brother as a boy.

 

It frightens him.

 

There are moments when he catches those wide amber eyes staring at him, flickering in the candlelight.

 

They rarely speak. Words seem unnecessary.

 

***

“You watch me.”

 

He turns, unaccustomed to the soft voice that echoes through the near-abandoned hallway. Gold-flecked eyes peer up at him, teeth biting at a plush lower lip.

 

“I…do,” he replies carefully, his voice hoarse from disuse.

 

His dark-haired Brother smiles tentatively, causing his heart to stutter a beat.

 

“I…like it. When you watch me.”

 

And oh…he is in _trouble,_ but still, he smiles back. “I will always watch you, my sunshine…”

 

***

The first time they kiss (a secret, stolen thing), he can’t say whether he is more elated or terrified.

 

The only thing he knows is that he will risk anything for another embrace.

 

***

 “We can’t. We can’t keep doing this.”

 

The words are hushed, tears brimming in flickering amber eyes.

 

“I know,” he admits, though his hands, clutching desperately at the other’s robe, and the way he presses his forehead against the shorter man’s bely the response.

 

A warm chuckle, low and rueful, echoes in the chamber. “I love you. I’m not supposed to, but I do.”

 

His lips are caught in a searing kiss, all tongue and teeth and tasting of sorrow. It tastes like a farewell.

 

“You’re leaving,” he gasps.

 

A flash of pain in those gold-tinged eyes. “I am. I go to bring the Word to my homeland.”

 

“You’re _running_ _away_!” His words are accusatory, hovering on the edge of anger.

 

“I’m trying to _save_ you! All this can do is ruin you if we are caught! I don’t care about myself, but you…you are so _good,_ and I can’t…I can’t let you be cast out! I can’t let you come to harm!”

 

He pulls his lover close, clutching, desperate. “You are not worth _less_ than me…” he whispers, voice choking in his throat.

 

A warm hand catches the tears that are beginning to flow, cups his cheek softly. “Oh my beloved, your love has been my greatest blessing. But hiding it away…I can’t. Someday, in another time, another place…I know we will find each other again. Somewhere we won’t have to keep our light hidden…”

 

“ _You are the light of the world…”_ he quotes softly. “You are the light of _my_ world. Everything will be dark without you…”

 

“Shhhh. Carry me in your heart as I will carry you in mine…” His dark-haired angel pulls away reluctantly, reaching into the folds of his robe to bring out a parchment-wrapped package. “A…a gift… It’s selfish, terribly selfish, but…will you use it, and remember me?”

 

“Always,” he gasped. “I will _always_ remember you.”

 

***

 

The gift, he discovers, is a set of fine boar’s hair brushes and a worn clay ink pot. He rather suspects it is his love’s own pot, traces of pigment settled into the cracks. He uses them daily, illuminating the texts in the flickering candlelight. He speaks even more rarely now than he did before but as he grows older, he finds that the younger Brothers are fond of him, often gathering to watch him work. He trains many apprentices, finding some measure of joy in their company. Still, his heart never feels whole. He suspects it never will.

 

***

When his vision begins to fade, it feels like fate. _“Everything will be dark without you…”_  he remembers saying. This, then, is merely the fulfillment of his own prophecy. He doesn’t really miss his sight, having only one thing, one _face,_ he truly wishes he could see…

 

He makes his way through the halls by touch, sometimes guided by a younger Brother or one of the acolytes for meals or evening prayers. His world is quiet and dark, but he doesn’t mind.

 

He waits.

 

***

“I knew you’d come back,” he says out loud one day. His voice is hoarse from disuse, but the answering chuckle tells him the other presence doesn’t mind.

 

“How did you know it was me?” queries that beloved voice, unbowed by the passage of time.

 

He rises, makes his slow, steady way to the waiting arms. “I will always know you, my darling.”

 

A hand, calloused but gentle, cups his cheek gently and he weeps for the joy of it. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, I really aimed for a complete tonal shift from 'A Scarlet Haze." So where we saw warrior Victor and Yuuri in the first chapter, here we see a much softer version of the boys. For the color theme, during my research I found that the color orange is associated with both passion and knowledge, so I combined that with the orange tones of warm candlelight, clay and ochre robes to set up the scene.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. The Spice of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is the Chicago Pride festival/parade so I'm up bright and early to get ready! Of course I had to post another Rainbow chapter to celebrate!
> 
> We're diving into the color theme of yellow today! Thanks for coming along on this journey with me!

**The Spice of Life**

 

The spice merchant’s tent was a riotous splash of color amongst the dull brown booths of the market. Mounds of yellow, thin scarlet threads of saffron, tiny silver scales used by the merchants to weigh their wares; all of it drew him like a moth to flame. The scent, rich and exotic, added to the siren’s call, a far cry from the bland seasonings used in the inn’s kitchen. 

 

He craned his neck, scanning for the last bit of allure the tent offered. Ah. There. 

 

_Him._

 

Cinnamon eyes flecked with the same golden shades of the turmeric he was busy packaging for a customer. Disheveled hair, black as coffee, contrasting richly with the creamy expanse of his milky skin…

 

“May I be of assistance?”

 

He startled at the query, brushing his long, silvery strands out of his eyes as he peered down at the tent’s other proprietor, partner and frequent companion to the cinnamon eyed man that haunted his dreams. Laughing grey eyes sparkled up at him, too knowing in their merriment. 

 

“Ah… yes, um, I was just looking for…” He panicked, scanning the tent, trying not to let his gaze linger on _him_ for too long. “Turmeric!” he yelped, blurting out the first spice that came to mind. 

 

“Turmeric. Right. And how much may I provide you today?” the young man said, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

 

He named the coin he was willing to spend, the young merchant efficiently weighing and packing the ground spice. _He_ kept glancing over, something warm and curious in his gaze. It was a bit dizzying.

 

“You know…” the merry young merchant said, disrupting his bouncing thoughts. “We’re going to The Poodle and Crown at sundown.” 

 

“Oh? And why would you tell me this?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

 

The merchant glanced in his partner’s direction, smiling mischievously. “Oh, no reason. Just thought that such an… _avid_ …patron of our wares might wish to join us for a pint or two on this fine evening.”

 

From across the tent, cinnamon eyes suddenly caught and held his own. Something warm blossomed in his gut at the contact. 

 

“Ah. Right. Well then, perhaps. Ah…good day!”

 

A feral grin bloomed on the young merchant’s face. “Of course. Good day.”

 

***

 

“What _is_ this?” his mother asked when he passed off the cloth bag of golden spice.

 

“Erm… turmeric?” he offered tentatively.

 

His mother sighed in exasperation. “Darling, please, we can’t afford all of these strange seasonings. We’re a simple inn. No more, understood?”

 

He flashed his heart shaped grin, earning another exasperated sigh in response.

 

The turmeric went into the same cabinet where all his other impulsive purchases rested. Maybe someday he would figure out how to use them… 

 

His mother reached out, ruffling his silver-blond locks. “Oh, love, go get into trouble elsewhere, hmmm? _Try_ not to get into too much though? Or to waste more coin on foolish investments?” 

 

He smirked in response, snagging his coin pouch as he made his escape. 

 

The Poodle and Crown called.

 

***

 

This inn was darker, more crowded than his family’s, the air redolent with strange, tempting spices. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew the reason why as he caught sight of a pair of dark heads bent in close conversation with the innkeeper at the bar. The sharp-smiled younger boy caught his eye, nudging his companion with an ungentle elbow. _He_ looked up sharply, those warm cinnamon eyes holding his own for a long beat before turning away, a heady blush gracing his high cheekbones. Emboldened, he made his way across the teeming public room, nonchalantly posting up next to the young spice merchants. 

 

“How strange to meet you here, good sir!” Grey eyes flashed teasingly up at him, inviting him to play along. 

 

“Oh, ah, yes. I fancied a change of scenery this evening,” he drawled, as if he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb in the main room of his parents’ biggest rival. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at the _real_ reason he was sitting here. “Perhaps you gentleman could make a few suggestions? I fear this is my first time patronizing this fine establishment!” He tried not to let it rankle that he’d never seen either man at his own inn. 

 

“Ah, well, it’s hard to go wrong with the ale, of course,” the smaller merchant smirked at him, “But the _real_ draw is the meat pies!” Strangely enough, that innocuous statement was enough to set the blush raging across the older merchant's cheeks once again. 

 

“Oh? I’ve never been particularly fond of meat pies myself,” he admitted, drawing a strangled cough from the beautiful spice merchant. He had buried his face in his hands, that blush now burning clear to the tips of his ears. 

 

He suddenly felt as if he had stepped into some strange verbal fencing match. Moreover, he had the feeling he was losing… 

 

Cinnamon eyes flashing warmly, the lovely merchant finally took pity on him. “What my friend isn’t telling you, is that they’re my recipe. The innkeeper partners with us to keep a steady supply of our spices on hand. In thanks for the steady income, I’ve offered a few suggestions for his menu.”

 

“Ah!” He tried to shove down the burst of jealousy that washed over him. “I’ll have to try one then. I’ll admit, I buy your spices because they smell and look so lovely, but neither I nor my family are quite sure how to use them.” He grimaced. “It’s a terrible waste of your lovely product, I must admit.” 

 

The lovely spice merchant took a hasty gulp of his golden hued ale, waving a hand in the air frantically. Like magic, a round of pints and meat pies appeared in front of the trio.

 

He was a touch trepidatious despite the spice merchants’ recommendations. Many of the city’s inns were rumoured to serve less than savory meats in their pies, a large part of the reason why he typically avoided the dish. Still, with those dark amber eyes watching him carefully, he cut into the flaky crust and lifted out a steaming bite. He had to admit that the smell was tempting, and he popped the morsel into his mouth, chewing carefully. The spice merchants leaned in, eagerly awaiting his verdict.

 

The flavors melted on his tongue, subtly spicy, with a hint of something sweet at the end. “Delicious!” he exclaimed. “This is your own recipe?” 

 

That heady blush returned as the spice merchant shyly nodded. “Mostly. I sort of…tweaked the old recipe, but the spices are ours…” 

 

Impulsively, he reached forward, grasping the lovely man’s hands in his own. Ignoring the watchful gaze of the younger merchant, he squeezed earnestly. “Teach me! I want to do your lovely spices justice, not just hide them in a cupboard where all I can do is smell them on occasion…”

 

A snort interrupted his eager request, the grey eyed merchant shaking with suppressed laughter. “Oh… oh my gods,” he gasped between giggles. “He’s… he’s smuggling your spices into his house so he can sit alone and _smell_ them…” The slender man slid off his stool, landing in a giggling heap. The older merchant nudged him with an ungentle foot. 

 

“Idiot,” he murmured fondly, watching his friend writhe on the floor. Then, he looked up, cinnamon eyes glinting with mirth. “I’ll teach you, if you truly wish it.”

 

The offer felt as if it carried a weight far greater than simple words, as if it had set something grand into motion. He shook off the sensation as they clasped hands. “Then I shall be your _best_ student. I swear it!”

 

***

 

“No, not so much, just a pinch is enough,” the spice merchant murmured, a hand sliding over his own to guide him in selecting the right amount. A shiver ran up his spine at the touch and he wondered if the other man felt the same delicious spark. 

 

“I’ll never get this right,” he mock-whined, “You’re going to have to show me _so_ many times!” 

 

Amber eyes studied him soberly for a long moment before a slow, sensuous smile spread across the merchant’s handsome features. “Of course,” came the low response. “As many times as you’d like.”

 

***

 

His parents learned to ignore the messes they created, focusing instead on the delicious smells and dishes coming from the kitchen that they now acknowledged as his domain. They appreciated the increase in income their new menu afforded, but they weren’t as fond of his choice in companion. If his mum and dad failed to acknowledge the constant presence of the foreign spice merchant, well, he supposed that things _could_ be worse. At least they left the two young men alone whenever they were working on new creations. 

 

And if, in the absence of nosy friends and suspicious parents, they progressed from tasting their creations to tasting each other’s lips, well, that was between the two of them.

 

***

 

“I’m… I have to go home soon,” his lovely spice merchant admitted one evening, brow furrowed, rich brown eyes downcast. “I… I don’t _want_ to leave y… leave here,” the other man hastened to assure him. “But… it’s been nearly five years. I have a family. A sister, my parents… it’s not safe to send money via courier, so they… they’re counting on me to bring it home soon.”

 

He could feel his heart breaking. They’d never talked about anything permanent, never put a name to what it is they have become to each other, but it’s something more than friendship, something more than lust. 

 

If he was braver, he’d probably call it love. 

 

A thousand questions swirled in his mind. ”Will you come back?” was the one that finally burst from his lips. He could see the answer swirling in those cinnamon-flecked eyes before his raven-haired beauty responded. 

 

“It’s… it’s a very long trip. And my parents, they’re getting older. They have their own inn, you see,” the spice merchant replied, smiling wryly. “My sister can’t run it on her own.”

 

“I could come with you!” he chirped brightly, desperate in his attempt to stall the inevitable. 

 

Plush lips met his in a searing kiss before the other man pulled back, pressing their foreheads together. “And what of your own family?” came the soft query.

 

“ _Damn_.” He knew. Knew there was no halting this fate. “How long do we have?” he choked out, desperate. 

 

“A month.”

 

One month. One month to make memories that would have to last a lifetime. He pressed a fervent kiss to that furrowed brow. “Okay,” he murmured, bowing to his fate. “Then we’ll just have to perfect these recipes before you go.”

 

“We will.”

 

***

 

A month passed far too quickly, weeks winding down to days and then hours. All too soon, he stood, clasping his lover’s hands for the last time. The merchant was traveling lightly, a pair of horses with stuffed saddle bags the only things accompanying him and his friend on the long journey. The stall itself had been passed on to a pair of younger apprentices. 

 

His spice merchant had shrugged, laughingly teasing that at least the spices for the dishes they’d learned together would still be available. 

 

_It wasn’t the same. It would never be the same._

 

After all, it had never been about the spices. 

 

“I made you something,” his merchant murmured shyly, before handing him a small leather-bound book, the cover a warm golden color that reminded him vividly of the domed piles of turmeric he’d been drawn to so long ago. He flipped through the little book, smiling as he recognized the recipes written in a neat hand. 

 

“Our creations!”

 

“Yes, so that you don’t forget them. Or… or _me_ …” he finished shyly. 

 

“Oh, sweet one, how could I ever forget you?” he breathed, pulling the smaller man into his arms, audience be damned. He pulled away reluctantly, making a show of flipping through the book as he fought to pull his emotions into check. “But… there are a lot of blank pages here…” he murmured, curious despite the looming separation. 

 

“I thought you could use those pages for anything new you create,” the merchant admitted before blushing. “And… I thought… I could write to you. The couriers are slow, but… letters are usually safe. I could send you new recipes. And maybe you could send me yours?”

 

“Yes!” he cried out. It was so little, but it was a way to stay in touch and he’d take anything he could get at this point. Then he stilled for a long moment. “But, my sunshine, my sweet one… I’m going to miss you. So, _so_ much…” 

 

With a choked sob, the merchant was in his arms, gripping him tightly. “I will never forget you. _Never_. For as long as I live.” 

 

“And I will never forget you, my darling. Not in this life, or in any other.”

 

***

 

The innkeeper sighed in satisfaction, brushing his hair, now more white than silver, out of his eyes. The common room was as bustling as always, the townsfolk crowding his tables for the unusual dishes he and his staff were known for producing. He pulled a thick envelope from his apron, pressing the latest recipe to his lips with a fond smile. 

 

Time passed, but he’d never forgotten his lovely merchant. He briefly unfolded the parchment, his heart aching at the parting line.

 

_With love, in this life, and every life to follow…_

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was digging around in my spice rack when I came up with this one. I have a great fondness for playing around with recipes and tweaking them with what I have on hand. Also, I went through a phase a few years back where I was convinced that turmeric was good for EVERYTHING. Have a cold? Turmeric, hot water, lemon. Sprained arm? Spread some turmeric on that bitch and wrap 'er up. (Yes. This happened. It was messy.)  
> Also, hey, look! Our boys have friends along for the ride!! From here on out we're going to be seeing some (hopefully) familiar faces. Trying to clearly identify supporting characters without using names became a bit of a fun challenge for me in this story.  
> As always, thank you for reading and commenting, I cherish every one of your words and kudos!!


	4. A Verdant Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for continuing to read this little experiment!   
> Along with trying to theme each chapter around a color, I was met with the challenge of basically trying to tell a similar story, seven different ways. I really tried to make each chapter feel like a new setting and I tried to adjust the tone of the chapter to reflect this.   
> Today, we're playing with the color green, which, thankfully, has lots of lovely shades for me to play with. I was also inspired by the stories by Austen and her contemporaries for the style and tone.

“Are you here to paint, or merely to gawk at the locals?” his younger cousin drawled, boredom dripping from the words. “Because I am fair certain that father agreed to fund this venture so that you could produce more landscapes for him to sell. Unless you’ve chosen to progress to portraiture in your old age?” 

 

He held his snappish response in check, refusing to let the boy rouse him to anger. Instead, he allowed an intentionally vapid smile to settle across his face. “Ah, dear cousin, would that not be surprising? But no, I was merely resting my eyes for a moment. My uncle will have his landscapes, have no fear.” His voice lilted in the sing-song tone he knew grated at his young cousin’s nerves and sure enough…

 

“ _Tch_. I wasn’t worried about the damnable landscapes. I just thought you might be frightening that poor farmer. He’s been staring at you every time you look away.” The boy turned with a huff, pulling back his pale golden hair as he stormed off to sit on the blanket they’d pilfered from the inn. 

 

He peered out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if his cousin was correct. Sure enough, the native farmer had paused in his work, blatantly gazing in their direction. Of course, he _could_ merely be staring at the easel… 

 

“Hello! Yes! You!” he called, drawing the farmer’s attention. 

 

“What are you _doing_ , you idiot?” his cousin hissed, scandalized. 

 

He ignored the teenager, beckoning cheerfully. “Would you like to see? Come look!” 

 

The pretty, raven-haired farmer blushed, shaking his head fervently before hastily gathering up his implements and making his way to the low buildings on the other side of the damp, viridian field. 

 

His cousin snickered from the blanket. “Well done, old man. He’ll never come back while you’re here! At least now you can focus on your landscapes.”

 

He pouted a bit, perturbed by the young farmer’s response. “I _was_ working on my landscapes. I just thought perhaps he’d enjoy a bit of company.”

 

Ignoring his cousin’s mocking laughter, he returned to his work. After all, he _had_ promised his uncle a new crop of paintings for their shop back home. Exotic landscapes were always an easy sell to wealthy businessmen eager to seem more well-traveled than they were. 

 

_Fools and their money_ , he thought bitterly, daubing a lighter jade tone onto his canvas. He was an _artist_. Just once, he’d like for his uncle’s clients to truly _appreciate_ his work. 

 

A hint of yellow, a slash of black, a wide expanse of green; the landscape took shape under his brush, a fair copy of the beauty spread before him. Another bit of loveliness that would be hidden away in a drab entryway or dining chamber. 

 

His eyes strayed to where the farmer had disappeared, and he remembered the flush that had graced the man’s ears before he’d run. 

 

_Lovely_ , he thought to himself. _Perhaps I_ should _try my hand at portraiture…_

 

***

 

Thankfully, his cousin’s prediction proved untrue. The handsome local farmer was back at work the next morning, tending to the field with furrowed-brow dedication. 

 

“He’s watching you again,” came his cousin’s low tease. “Probably wondering why some foppish foreign idiot keeps invading his privacy while he’s trying to work.” 

 

He shook out his long, silvery hair, ignoring the needling tone as he watched the young farmer. Indeed, the man was watching him, dark eyes wide as they followed the flow of his pale hair in the wind. _No,_ the artist mused, _that’s not it._ The farmer didn’t seem upset. If anything, the lovely, raven-haired local looked… 

 

_Fascinated._

 

It was a heady feeling, which was quite odd. He was used to being praised not only for the beauty of his paintings, but for his fine features, which had captured the eye of many a wealthy patron. Like his paintings, he knew they didn’t want him for who or what he was… He was just another pretty bauble to decorate their drawing rooms. Truth be told, it was half the reason he’d begged his uncle to send him somewhere new; he needed an escape from all of it, from all of _them._  

 

This man though…

 

“May I still look?”

 

The question startled him out of his reverie, the voice heavily accented but musical and clear. 

 

He glanced over at his cousin, pleased to note that the boy’s brows had shot up in surprise. When he looked back at the farmer, the young man had come closer, hands anxiously clasped together as he looked hesitantly between the painter and the back of the easel. 

 

“Of course,” he offered graciously, stepping back from his work in invitation. The farmer moved closer still, brushing his dark hair away from his face and…

 

_Heavens save me_ , he thought, leaning closer unconsciously. The man’s eyes were the warmest shade of brown he’d ever seen. The richness of damp earth, the sparkle of amber, flecks of cinnamon…he’d never felt the need to grab his paints quite so urgently. The native beauty was utterly wasted in the midst of these fields; he should be sitting as a model for the finest painters, sonnets should be composed in tribute to his cheekbones, choruses sung to the plushness of his lips…

 

“ _O_ _i!_ Stop being so familiar, you poncy fool! You’re frightening him!” 

 

The farmer glanced over at the boy lounging on the plush blanket.

 

“I’m not frightened,” the farmer averred, brow furrowed. “But I did not wish to, _ahhh…_ intrude?” 

 

“Oh! No! You aren’t intruding, not in the least! Right, cousin?”

 

The teen deigned to wave a languid hand from his reclined position, barely restraining himself from rolling his emerald eyes. “Of course not. What could possibly be more amusing than entertaining some piggish local farmer?”

 

“Oh, I don’t keep pigs,” the farmer interjected. “Ah…rice. And tobacco?” The young man glanced anxiously between the two cousins, a tentative smile on his lips as he earnestly attempted to correct what he obviously saw as a misunderstanding. 

 

Seeing his cousin’s lips already twisting to reply with something certain to offend, the painter quickly intervened. “Yes! And your fields are really quite lovely. Do you maintain all of this by yourself?”

 

The farmer’s eyes widened in dismay as he wrung his hands. “Oh, nononono! There are several families who ah…share?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the cluster of small buildings, biting his plush lower lip as he turned back to stare beseechingly at the easel. 

 

“I’m terribly sorry! You’ve been wanting to see the painting and I’m standing here querying you! Come, come!”  

 

Standing back, he smiled as the farmer made his way to the easel, something warm bubbling in his chest at the genuine wonder in the other man’s eyes. _That._ That was the expression he wanted to see in people’s eyes when they looked at his work: not avarice, not calculation, but _wonder_. 

 

“Oooooooh,” the farmer breathed, dark lashes fluttering over glowing amber eyes, full lips rounded as he drew out the vowel. “Beautiful.”

 

_“Beautiful,_ ” the artist echoed, not even pretending to look at the painting.

 

***

 

“So, have you _completely_ lost your mind, or is your new cox-combish behaviour related to a certain native farm boy?” asked his cousin.

 

True, he had spent more time than usual at the inn’s spottled mirror that morning, but…

 

“Oh, gods,” his cousin groaned. “You’re stupidly smitten with that man. You know this cannot go anywhere, you vain fool. Father will never agree to sponsor him back home and you cannot stay here.”

 

The mirror reflected the turmoil in his bright blue eyes. “I know, cousin. I do know this. But he makes me _feel_. He finds joy in my paintings, in _me_ , and…none of the pompous men of wealth at home look on me or my work with more than lust and avarice. Can I not have a few weeks to enjoy feeling cherished for my own worth? You know once we go home, Uncle will either find me a suitable spouse or tie me to my easel. I’m not used to having worth outside of being pretty or producing pretty things.”

 

His cousin had the good grace to look chagrined. “ _Tch._ You know well your own worth. Why you let those pompous arses define you, I’ll never know.”

 

He threw his arms around the younger boy, exuberant in his affections. “You _do_ care!”

 

“Augh! Keep your hands for painting and foreign farmers, you idiot!” the boy yelped. 

 

“Ah, but we’re the foreigners here, dear cousin.”

 

The boy huffed as he brushed his golden locks out of his eyes. “Something you’d do well to remember. He’s growing too used to your presence. What will happen when we return home?”

 

The painter stilled, suddenly sober. “I…haven’t the faintest idea.”

 

The thought haunted him.

 

***

“Is this…me?” the young farmer asks, bewilderment clear in his voice as he stared at the newest painting. 

 

“It is.” The painter smiled at the clear disbelief in his… _friend’s_ …eyes.

 

“But…why?”

 

He hummed thoughtfully. “Because I love to paint beautiful things. And you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever encountered.”  


It was only after his friend had fled that he realized he might have been too forward.

 

***

On a day his cousin stayed at the inn instead of joining him to paint, his farmer proved to him that, no, he _had not_ been too forward.

***

 

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to repeat yourself, because it certainly sounds as if you’ve asked a local to _come home with us_.”

 

His young cousin’s tone was mild, but his emerald eyes were blazing. 

 

“I did,” he replied blithely, ignoring the disbelieving glare that was leveled in his direction.

 

“Father will never condone this. You cannot simply…bring paramours home from abroad! What about your reputation? Your suitors?” 

 

His temper finally began to fray. “What about living a life I actually _enjoy?_ I care not a whit for any of those pompous asses. I _do_ care for _him_. Isn’t that important? Does that not _matter?”_

 

***

In the end, no. It does _not_ matter.

***

 

“I…I’m to be married.” The words were tentative, his lover’s face flushed, eyes lowered, hiding their amber glow. 

 

“Married,” he repeated dumbly. 

 

“My family…I don’t…I _must_. They chose long ago and I…it would dishonor them all for me to refuse,” the younger man explained, misery clear in his tone and features. “But _you_ …” he continued. “You should be free. You should not let them tie you down. You have _so much_ to give to the world. Paint. Create. Be _free_.” 

 

The painter choked out a gasping breath, drawing his lover close in a desperate embrace. “How can you say that? How can I be free when you are caged? Come with me. _Stay_ with me…” He was shocked to find that tears had formed, slipping silently down his cheeks. 

 

The other man was silent for a long moment, his head tilted down, raven locks hiding his face. When he looked up again, a strange look was in his eyes. “I know you will not understand or believe me. But this,” he hesitated, struggling to find words in their common tongue, “this is not the end of our story. I believe this. I cannot change this chapter, but…this is not the end. Another time. Another…another us. I will find you again, and I will stay. I swear it.” That strange light was still in his eyes as he sealed his promise with a kiss. 

 

***

 

“What is _that?_ ” his cousin asked, curious despite his perpetually feigned nonchalance. Of course, boredom was likely the culprit for this newly discovered inquisitiveness. The voyage home was quite long, after all.

 

He glanced up, shoving his silvery hair out of his eyes. “I’m not the only artist, it would seem.” He offered the roll of fine paper to the boy, pleased at his shocked expression. His sweet farmer had gifted it to him at their parting, begging only that he not look until their ship had sailed. Delicate brushwork danced across the parchment: an idyllic scene, featuring a silver haired man and a field of green. 

 

Bright eyes flashed up at him from over the image. “I’m sorry,” his cousin grudgingly admitted. “You deserved a better fate.” 

 

“Yes,” the painter replied. “But I’ll deal with the hand with I’ve been dealt.” A wicked grin crossed his face, his mood suddenly lifting. “I believe I’ll need your help with my dear uncle.” His gaze drifted back toward the land which they’d left behind. “I find that the married life does not quite appeal to me in this lifetime.”

 

He’d wait. A thousand lifetimes he’d wait. 

 

After all, his love had promised.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we have another guest appearance in this chapter! Incorporating Phichit in 'Yellow' was fun because I love his mischievous personality. And using Yuri Plisetsky is always such a joy, because his voice is so clear, even without naming him or using modern language. But! Yuri P had a brief cameo in 'Red' as well (Victor's kittenish protege), so he's the only character besides Victor and Yuuri to appear in multiple chapters!


	5. Endless Horizons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's play with the color Blue, shall we?

In the dim light of the pre-dawn, the fields were dappled in brilliant shades of blue: cornflower and sapphire and lapis, a cyan that nearly matched his own eyes. It was a riotous tumult of color as far as the eye could see. The tulips, rumored to be worth their weight in gold, had finally bloomed, the spring warmth having coaxed them from their drab bulbs. 

 

Not that he truly had time to be admiring the flowers. He wasn’t here, vast furlongs from his homeland, to study  _ flowers _ after all. No, his Master had sent him here based on the fine reputation of the Dutch anatomists. He was meant to learn the secrets of the mortal body, no matter his preferences in the matter. 

 

With a sigh, he swept his fine, pale hair from his shoulders, cursing at the recalcitrant strands that fell from their ribbon, no matter how tightly he bound it. Turning resolutely from the lovely vista, he aimed his feet towards the drab building on the outskirts of the city. Despite the respect the rest of the civilized world harbored towards the Dutch Masters, the handling of corpses, no matter the reason, was still viewed as a less than savory occupation by the majority of the populace. 

 

He sauntered into the Anatomical Hall, shedding his black overcoat and draping it with those of the other students before once again shouldering his satchel and making his way up to the balcony of the operating theatre. He joined the handful of other foreign pupils in the far corner, nodding at the shy raven-haired lad from the East before posting up beside the sly Swiss scholar that had befriended him long weeks ago. 

 

“You’re very nearly late, my dear,” the tall blond teased. “I cannot imagine why you would leave so little leeway in your morning schedule.”

 

“Ah, yes,” he murmured in reply, his eye catching on the dissection occurring below them. “Why ever would I wish to miss such delightful views and wholesome aromas?” He wrinkled his nose, earning a laugh from the other man. 

 

“Careful, darling, I’m starting to think you’re not the avid student you claim to be!” 

 

He frowned, perturbed at being so easily read. “That’s not…I  _ do _ wish to learn. I just…perhaps there are other things beyond the deceased human form I wish to study.”

 

“A shame,” his friend replied, laughter bubbling beneath his words. “I can think of nothing so fascinating as the human form.  _ Living _ , though, preferably.” The words were light, but the other man’s tone was odd, hazel eyes fixed not on the scene below, but on the pretty boy from the East.

 

“You wouldn’t know shame if it peered at you from your looking glass,” he scolded, moving to block the Swiss scholar’s view of the other student. 

 

“Careful, my dear, your actions smack oddly of jealousy.” 

 

He wanted to protest the accusation but found that he could not. It was true. Something akin to jealousy had indeed arisen at his friend’s words. He’d barely spoken to the quiet Eastern lad, yet he found himself strangely protective over him. 

 

“Hold your tongue,” he scolded, choosing to ignore the odd impulse in favour of focusing on the lesson occurring below. “I’ll not share my notes if you miss this lecture due to your lecherous mind.” 

 

***

At midday break, he found himself alone, meandering the paths of the overgrown courtyard, his meagre luncheon long since consumed. As he turned a corner, a strange sound interrupted his walk and he paused to listen. It came again, a choking, retching sob, nearby. Concerned, he hastened his footsteps, calling softly.

 

“Hello? Are you well? Should I summon a physician?” 

 

There was a sudden rustle from the overgrown greenery and then a voice, small and pleading: “No. Please, I’m well.”

 

He hesitated. The voice was heavily accented, the words curling strangely, so perhaps he had misunderstood, yet…whoever it was certainly did not  _ sound _ well. 

 

“I beg you, allow me to assist you.”

 

There came a huff, as if of annoyance, and then the greenery parted, revealing a disheveled figure. Enormous brown eyes, thick black hair plastered by sweat to ivory skin…

 

“Oh!” he gasped in surprise. “I know you, you’re…”

 

“Yes, yes,” the other student muttered. “I would, ah…” he hesitated, appearing to wrack his brain for the proper words, “ _ appreciate _ if you might keep this encounter private.” His tone was formal, but his eyes were imploring. 

 

“But of course,” he replied, voice low as he offered a teasing half-bow. 

 

When he rose, he was surprised to find the Eastern lad flushed, those warm eyes blown impossibly wide. It was an undeniably attractive vision.

 

“Ah, yes. I’ll just…be…I should… _ shimatta _ ,” the young man stuttered, his words fading into a stream of what must surely be his native tongue as he turned hastily and fled the vicinity.

 

His lips quirked up into a smile as he watched the man depart. Perhaps there were sights more lovely than the tulip fields after all.

 

***

 

The tulips weren’t nearly as distracting the following morning, though their bobbing heads of cerulean and cobalt blended into the sky and water, creating the dizzying sensation of an endless sea of blue. It was lovely, but he had other places to be. 

 

He shucked his coat, taking the stairs to the balcony two at a time, much to the disapproval of the sober old gentleman who was ostensibly in charge of overseeing the students. He muttered a quick apology to the man before taking his usual spot in the corner. 

 

“ _ Mon dieu!  _ You’re early,” his friend teased. “To what do we owe the honor?” 

 

He ignored the question, distractedly craning his neck and peering around the crowd of milling young scholars until he caught sight of that head of disheveled raven hair. Good; the lad hadn’t thrown in the towel quite yet. 

 

“Lord, but you aren’t paying attention to a word I say, are you? Judging by your distraction, I fear your punctuality is not due to your desire for my own delightful company.” There was a pouting tone to his friend’s words and he guiltily turned back to the tall blond.

 

“Sorry, I’m listening. Truly I am.”

 

“But of course. You certainly aren’t distracted by a pair of shining eyes and midnight locks,” the Swiss scholar teased. 

 

He rolled his eyes, forcing himself to look away from the young Easterner and focus on the lecture occurring below them. 

 

***

 

At the luncheon break, he found himself following the same path as the previous day, guiltily hoping that perhaps his quarry would follow a similar pattern. A rustling in the bushes brought a grin to his face, though he hastened to wipe the expression from his face before the other scholar emerged. As before, the man looked distressed and pale.

 

“I have something that might help,” he offered without preamble, earning himself a yelp of surprise. 

 

“I...you... _ why _ are you here?” came the stammering query.

 

“Oh, goodness, I wasn’t thinking. My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized before holding out a tiny vial in offering. “It’s the stench, is it not? This might help.”

The Easterner stepped forward tentatively, glancing quizzically at the vial. Chuckling, he uncapped it and upended it over a finger. 

 

“Oil of rosemary,” he explained, chuckling at the confused look that passed over the other man’s face. He wasn’t sure what possessed him in that moment, but he leaned closer, daring to dab his oiled finger just over the perfect bow of those too lush lips. Biting his own lips in the fear that he’d gone a step too far, he hastened to explain. “The scent will last for hours. It...I thought...it might help,” he finished lamely.

 

Standing so close, he couldn’t miss the bobbing of the slender throat, the brilliant flush that colored the high cheek bones as the smaller man stared up at him, the way the rich, earthen-toned eyes looked suddenly black as the pupils widened in...shock? He swallowed, unable to step away as his hand drifted down to cup an impossibly soft cheek. 

 

“We’ve barely spoken,” he murmured into the scant space between them. “Why does it feel as if I’ve always known you?”

 

As if his words had broken a spell, the other scholar stepped back, still flushed. “You  _ don’t _ know me,” the man said as he turned away. 

 

Something in his chest ached at the rejection, and he felt as if something precious had broken in that moment, something he hadn’t even known he’d found until he lost it. He watched the raven locks sway as the other man walked away, heart clenching when the other student hesitated, looking back over his shoulder for a long moment. 

 

“But...perhaps we could come to know one another,” the man called back to him, his soft accent inviting and warm. 

 

He felt his lips stretch in a wide, heart-shaped grin as he eagerly replied, “May I walk you home?”

 

***

 

“Early  _ and _ smiling? Has some miracle occurred to thaw your icy, Northern heart?” his friend teased the following morning. The taller man’s lips twisted into a smirk, hazel eyes dancing before they suddenly widened in surprise. 

 

The scent of rosemary drifted through the air and he turned with a smile, knowing who he would find. 

 

“Good morning! You used the oil!”

 

“Ah... Good morning. Yes, I...thank you, again. It was very kind of you,” the smaller man stammered.

 

“I assure you, the pleasure is entirely mine,” he replied softly. “Would you allow me to escort you home again this evening?” he continued, eager to press his advantage. A mumbled  _ yes _ graced his ears before the other student made a hasty retreat to his usual corner of the balcony. 

 

“Take care,  _ mon ami _ , your regard is far too clear,” the Swiss scholar murmured. 

 

“Your concern is noted, but unnecessary. I have no qualms about making my intentions known,” he replied diffidently, turning to raise a brow in challenge.

 

To his surprise, his friend merely looked sorrowful. “I fear your intentions will come to naught, my dear. He’s only here to aid in his homeland’s translation of Battus’ work. He’ll leave soon.”

 

Stung, he turned to glance at the object of his desire, hoping to pull the lad’s attention back in his direction. “You don’t know that. He might choose to stay,” he replied, clinging to hope.

 

“Oh darling, not in this lifetime, I fear,” came the sorrowful rejoinder.

 

***

 

He vowed to ignore the warning as he walked home, side by side with the too-lovely object of his affections. 

 

He tried to ignore it when they sat together during their luncheon break.

 

He ignored it the first time they sipped from each other’s lips, hidden in a field of azure flowers.

 

And again the first time they made love, silk sheets crumpled beneath them, sweat and warm breath shared between their bodies, soft words of love dripping from kiss-bruised mouths.

 

It mattered not. 

 

The warning came back to haunt him.

 

***

 

“I’ve received a summons. I’m to return home in a fortnight,” his lover confessed, tears brimming in wide cinnamon eyes. “They require my notes to finish the translation.”

 

“Oh,” he blurted in dismay before hastening to cover his concern. “Well then, I suppose we must make the most of our remaining time. How long will you be away?” 

 

Inky lashes fluttered in surprise. “I…what do you mean? I’m…I’m going  _ home _ ?” The smaller man’s brow furrowed in confusion. 

 

“But...but what of your studies?” he stammered.  _ What about me?  _

 

“I’ve my own Masters at home, my studies here were merely to assist them in their work.”

 

“I see. Then this was  _ merely _ a temporary diversion for you.” He chuckled, a dry, mirthless exhalation of breath and sound. “I hadn’t realized you had such a knack for cruelty.” 

 

Cinnamon eyes blazed up at him, flashing in fury. “Would you have me give up my family, my  _ life _ to be your paramour? I cannot  _ stay  _ here. I’m only allowed to attend lectures on the whim of the Dutch Masters. I can have no career, no  _ life _ here without someone’s patronage. You may be a foreigner, but you wear the right skin to be accepted. I care for you. Love you. I  _ do.  _ But I will not become an exotic pet or a kept man.”

 

“I would never ask you to be!” he exclaimed, shocked by the outburst. 

 

“No, but it is what would happen,” his lover replied, voice softer now...sadder. “These weeks with you have been…they’ve been  _ everything. _ But I don’t belong here in your world, not really. Any more than you’d belong in mine.” 

 

“The world changes…” he whispered, hopeless.

 

“It does. Maybe one day the distance between our people won’t feel so vast.” 

 

“One day. I’ll come find you,” he said, smiling through his tears. 

 

“I know you will.”

 

***

 

The tulip fields had long since withered, their brilliant blooms drooping and fading with the march of time. The sea and sky still held their cerulean hue, but the greys, browns and the greying greens now broke the illusion of an endless vista, now reminding him too starkly of endings that came far too soon. 

 

“There’s something peaceful about it,” a soft voice murmured at his side and he turned welcoming the soft body that leaned against him despite the lump in his throat.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he admitted. He was done with tears now, instead facing their separation with a sort of hopeless fatalism that made him at turns cling and then turn away from his lover. The Eastern scholar had accepted his moods unquestioningly, never crowding him, but somehow always  _ there _ in the moments he ached the most for comfort. Maddeningly, his lover’s resolve had never wavered. 

 

He supposed there was something admirable in such resolution. Maybe one day he’d even accept it.

 

“It reminds me that life is an endless cycle. That every ending begets a new beginning.” 

 

“Is that something you believe?” he asked softly.

 

“It is something I’ve been taught,” his love replied matter-of-factly before turning to look up at him, his eyes sparkling strangely in the pre-dawn light. “But I’d very much like for it to be true.” 

 

He couldn’t resist the urge to lean down and steal a kiss. He lingered, desperate to commit the sensation of those perfectly warm lips against his own to his memory, knowing that it would never be enough. All too soon, the embrace ended, the other man stepping back reluctantly. 

 

“I have to go.”

 

“I know.”

 

The smaller man crouched down, digging through the large satchel that had sat at his feet as they’d made their farewells. Pulling out a small bundle, he offered it, tentatively. “This is for you to open later. Something...something to remind you.” 

 

He took the cloth-bound package but put aside his curiosity in favor of pulling his raven-haired beauty close for one last embrace, one last desperate kiss, one last feel of warm skin against his. 

 

Then the moment was past, the light waning as they pulled apart, fingertips outstretched for a long moment before finally, finally…everything he wanted came to an end. 

 

***

In his grief, he nearly forgot about the package. 

 

“ _ Je suis désolé _ , my dear. Lectures have been so dull without your presence.” 

 

He smiled wanly up at his friend, brushing his long hair out of his face and wincing at the limpness of the fine strands. There was a flash of something that looked like pity in his friend’s fine hazel eyes, then the Swiss scholar grinned. 

 

“Ah, what’s this?” he asked, plucking up the cloth-wrapped little bundle. 

 

“A parting gift.” The words twisted bitterly on his tongue and his friend set it hesitantly back down on the desk.

 

“Which you have chosen not to open?” the blond said delicately, arching a brow in question. 

 

He shrugged in response, unwilling to reopen such a fresh wound. It had only been a day. How could he last a lifetime?

 

A deep sigh cut through the room. “You should travel. I’m Paris-bound in a few months, you’d be a welcome companion. I fear you’ll not be happy sitting still for long, now.”

 

Again, he shrugged, eyes now caught on the package. He felt a hand on his head, as if in benediction, and then his friend was gone. Hand shaking, he reached for the twine which bound up the cloth. As the wrapping fell away, he was met with thin sheets of wood, bound up tightly with more twine. He plucked at the knots, lifting up the top panel in curiosity. 

 

He gasped in surprise as it fell to the desk with a clatter. There, pressed flat between paper-thin sheets of linen and the layers of wood, lay their tulip field. He hastened to separate the rest of the layers until his love’s gift lay spread across his desk in full. 

 

Azure and cyan, sapphire and lapis, cerulean and zaffre...the colors of the sea and the sky and the field. Unfaded, unwilted, lovely… He pressed their flattened petals to his lips, finally allowing himself to feel something other than sorrow. 

 

A cycle,  _ he _ had said. Well then. He could wait for the next turn of the wheel. 

 

In the meantime, perhaps Paris wouldn’t be so bad.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece was actually directly inspired by a bit more history than some of the others. 
> 
> My first source was Rembrandt's painting "The Anatomy Lesson of Doctor Nicolaes Tulp", which inspired a large portion of the setting. 
> 
> The second was the Japanese translation of a Dutch translation (by Battus) of a _French_ medical text. The Japanese translation would have been in the works at around the same time as Rembrandt was painting. 
> 
> We'll see a BUNCH of (hopefully) familiar faces in the next vignette! See you soon for the Indigo story line!


	6. Make the Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I loved using Chris so much in the last chapter. I decided 1 bonus character per chapter wasn't enough so... have a few!

“Do you know? I think I liked you better when you were still just a family friend.” 

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he turned away from the window in exasperation, facing his teenaged ward. “And why, pray tell, is that, my dear?”

 

The girl wrinkled her nose at him, her blue eyes flashing merrily beneath her scarlet curls. “Because you were _fun_ then, darling! But you’ve cut your hair and changed your dress and you’ve gotten so…grown-uppish! Simply because you’re my _guardian_ now, doesn’t mean we cannot still be friends!” And, _ah,_ she was _laughing_ at him.

 

He pouted in her direction. “I’m five and twenty. I believe _grown-uppish_ is rather expected of me,” he pointed out before sniffing. “And I’m still _fun!_ ” 

 

She giggled, bounding forward to tousle his carefully styled silver-blond locks. “Of course, darling. Which is why we should go to the theatre tonight!” 

 

“Even _I_ cannot obtain tickets to the Imperial Ballet on such short notice,” he pointed out wryly, already working to rearrange the havoc the girl had wreaked on his appearance. 

 

“Oh, _bah_ , who needs the Imperial Ballet? There are other troupes, you know. Less...formal,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at him. “It would be _fun_ to see one of them instead,” she continued, a foreboding twinkle in her eye.

 

“Why do I have the oddest sensation that you’ve something ridiculous planned?”

 

“Why, good sir, would I dare to do such a thing?” his ward teased, bright blue eyes wide and innocent. 

 

He was _definitely_ in trouble.

 

***

 

Sound and color swirled around them as they strolled, the unfamiliar streets thrumming with an equally strange energy. He was suddenly glad he’d caved to the plea for casual wear; even now the pair stood out against the more shabbily dressed folk. Despite the lack of wealth, the people in their vicinity seemed cheerful, out for a night of entertainment in the festival-like atmosphere of the warm summer evening. Vendors cried their wares from various makeshift booths, entertainers vied for coin and applause, and amidst it all, he found himself grinning in delight. 

 

A slight frame leaned against him and he gazed fondly down at the young woman who was smirking up at him. “Good heavens, is that a smile I see? Could it be that you are…” she paused with a dramatic gasp, “having _fun?”_

 

He rolled his eyes, then chuckled ruefully. “I suppose I am. Though I believe you suggested the theatre? I hardly think a street fair qualifies, despite the...ah... _entertainment_.”

 

The girl sniffed haughtily. “Silly. This is simple a prelude to our main event!” She froze, then reached down to grab his hand and tug him eagerly in the direction of a tent decorated with strange symbols. 

 

He always forgot how strong she was. “ _Lapochka_ , what…”

 

“Fortunes! We should have our palms read!” 

 

He drew back, suddenly wary. “I don’t believe that’s wise,” he stalled, reluctant to dash the happy look from his ward’s face. He was equally reluctant to part with good coin for bad advice from some charlatan. 

 

“Oh, _bah_. You _used_ to have a sense of adventure,” the young woman replied, brushing her bright locks from her face as she planted her fists on her hips in challenge. 

 

“Ah, young love,” a voice murmured, an eerie sing-song quality to the breathy tone. They turned as one, peering in surprise at the strange vision before them. Rather outlandishly dressed in richly dyed silk robes hovering somewhere between blue and violet, the man’s _outre_ appearance was capped, quite literally, by a shock of inky black hair, somehow coaxed into a towering point. 

 

A nervous giggle escaping her lips, the girl hastened to correct the man’s assumption. “Oh! Goodness, no, no, we aren’t…he’s...a friend of my family’s...like a brother, really. Or...an uncle, perhaps?”

 

“Ah. No. You misunderstand me. Not with each other, of course not!” The man seemed offended by the suggestion. “Though perhaps I’m confusing the timelines...the future is a fickle mistress…” 

 

“Oh! Are you the fortune teller?” The young woman seemed delighted at the possibility.

 

The man turned his nose up. “Certainly not,” he replied haughtily before placing a dramatic hand to his chest. “ _I_ am a _Seer.”_

 

Catching his ward’s wrist as she bounced forward, he bowed politely in an attempt to end the strange conversation. “Yes, our apologies for such an egregious error. We’ll just be on our way then…”

 

“Wait!” the Seer called out. “ _You._ The timelines twist so strangely about you...so much heartache, repeating through the ages…so much potential...” The unnerving man stalked closer, peering closely at him, nearly eye to eye. “But a chance will come to break the cycle, if you dare to take it.”

 

He felt a strange chill race down his spine at the pronouncement. “What...what on earth are you babbling about?” he asked, unnerved.

 

The Seer straightened to his full height, eyes fluttering closed as he began to sway. “Before. Soon. Again. A dark-haired man, from a far-away land, with whom you could see the world, reach the highest of heights.” The Seer’s pale eyes snapped open and he sighed deeply. “Ah. Yes, true love, if you can make the connection. How I envy you.” The odd man held out a palm in supplication. 

 

Backing away, he once again reached for his ward’s wrist, not bothering to protest as she dropped a coin into the charlatan’s hand before darting back to join him. 

 

“Right. I believe I’ve had enough of this sort of _fun_ , my dear. Perhaps we could make our way to our destination, hmmm?” 

 

The girl gracefully acquiesced, twining her arm through his as she led him away from the crowded fair. Still, he couldn’t help narrowing his eyes as he looked back over his shoulder, searching the crowd. The man was gone. Irritated and more than a little confused, he tucked a recalcitrant lock of silver hair back behind his ear, vowing to forget the strange words. 

 

***

 

The so-called “theatre” appeared to be in an abandoned shop on the edges of the neighborhood. Muttering his ward’s name under his breath, he turned to her, sure that his disapproval must be radiating from him in clear waves. Of course, if it was, the petite redhead didn’t seem to notice. She bounced on her toes in excitement, not bothering to conceal her gleeful anticipation.

 

He sighed. “I can talk to the Madame if we walk quickly. Perhaps there is somewhere we can watch from backstage at the Imperial Theatre…”

 

The girl ignored him, continuing her happy bounce as another young woman darted out the door of the hovel. The young women wrapped their arms around each other in a familiar embrace and he had a moment to wonder what, precisely, had been occurring during the hours he was absent for business. When he cleared his throat, the girls hastily separated, the newcomer peering up at him curiously. 

 

With odd violet eyes and a thick fall of wavy, mahogany tresses, the young woman was certainly comely. She curtsied prettily, lowering her thick lashes as she greeted him. “ _Benvenuto_ , sir, miss!” she said, giggling sweetly. “Thank you for coming to our humble show!”

 

 _Italian_ , he thought to himself, unsurprised. If the girl, as he suspected, was an artist or dancer, she’d likely fled the oppressive troubles in her homeland, seeking freedom or perhaps merely seeking a way to make a living. She was far from the only one. 

 

Bemused, he allowed the woman to link her arm with his as she led the way into the supposed theatre. Once past the door, he let out a low whistle of surprise. The interior belied its drab exterior, the walls draped in richly dyed cloths, the colors of the rainbow swirling together with the flickering light of the lanterns spread about the large room. The effect was undeniably appealing - warm and inviting, a subtle incense adding to the softly sensual air. He glanced nervously at his young ward. She was clearly familiar with at least one member of this odd troupe, but he couldn’t help but wonder what sort of folk they’d fallen in with. 

 

As a low fanfare of music floated through the scented air, the Italian woman and a man who shared her strange eyes began beckoning the milling patrons to take their seats on a series of low cushions and cloth-draped chairs. Resigned to seeing this strange evening through to its conclusion, he settled gingerly on one of the chairs, smiling down softly as a nest of messy red curls settled on his shoulder. 

 

The music shifted and half of the lanterns were suddenly dimmed as a trio of performers strode their way to the center of the space. The Italian girl was in the center, flanked by a pair of men clad in snug trousers and loose shirts. The trio began to dance, their motions fluid and sensuous, far from the controlled precision of the Imperial Ballet, yet strangely compelling.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he found himself focusing on one of the men. Soft, dark hair held back with an indigo ribbon, eyes warm and soft in the flickering lighting, high cheekbones and a grace that left him gasping. 

 

“See something you like?” came a sly voice and he turned, meeting his ward’s vivid blue eyes.

 

“The, ah, dancing is better than I anticipated,” he admitted, swallowing down his reaction as he found his gaze once again glued to the dancer. 

 

“Right,” the girl replied smugly. “The _dancing_.”

 

***

Somehow the performance segued almost seamlessly into an after party. Hats had been passed, collecting coin for the dancers and musicians, and now the hats had been replaced with freely passed carafes of wine and spirits. The dancers mingled with the patrons as the musicians took turns playing for their enjoyment. 

 

He’d long since relegated himself to a corner, sipping pensively at his surprisingly enjoyable wine as he tried to keep an eye on a head of bobbing scarlet hair as its owner went spinning around the dance floor. 

 

“You could be out there, you know,” a softly accented voice pointed out from far too close for comfort. 

 

It was the dancer. The beautiful one. Because _of course_ it was. Up close the dancer’s eyes were mesmerizing: melted chocolate tinged with amber sparks and rimmed with unbelievably long, dark lashes. He had a moment of insanity, wondering if those lashes were as soft as they looked...he forced himself to step back before his twitching fingers reached out to check.

 

“I could say the same to you,” he replied instead, aiming for nonchalance and failing dismally. 

 

“I’ve already danced,” the other man pointed out, smoothing his long, dark hair out of the way before leaning back against the wall to take a long drink from the glass clutched in his hand. “But perhaps I could be persuaded into an encore...provided I had the right partner.”

 

With a sputtering cough, he struggled to meet the dancer’s eyes. “I...I don’t really, well, _dance_ …”

 

“A shame,” the dancer replied, accent thick and warm caramel eyes flashing strangely as he pushed away from the wall. “I’d have enjoyed dancing with you, I think.” As the dancer walked away, hips sashaying, a brilliantly colored scarf dropped from his belt loop. 

 

 _“Blyad_ ,” he muttered under his breath, stooping down to snatch the strip of cloth before it could be trampled. By the time he straightened, the dancer had disappeared. He craned his neck, straining to see through the swirling crowd. He grimaced, a strange sense of disappointment coursing through him as he reluctantly tucked the forgotten scarf into his jacket pocket. He’d pass it off to one of the theatre folk before they departed. 

 

Frowning, he shifted his searching gaze, seeking red hair instead of black. The hour was growing late and he _was_ supposed to be the responsible one…

 

***

 

It hit him with a jolt the next morning. 

 

_“A dark-haired man, from a far-away land, with whom you could see the world, reach the highest of heights.”_

 

The Seer’s words echoed in his memory, colliding vividly with his brief interactions with the lovely dancer. 

 

_“True love, if you can make the connection.”_

 

He shook his head. Superstitious nonsense. And yet…

 

Hastily, he dug through the pockets of the jacket he’d worn the night before, drawing out the indigo scarf he’d somehow forgotten to return. Once dressed, he made his way out into the main chambers, the scarf once again tucked away.

 

He noted his ward tucking into a hearty breakfast, looking tired but happy. With a grin, he leaned over her shoulder, purloining a slice of cured meat from her platter.

 

“Rude!” the girl giggled, peering up at him. 

 

Nonchalantly, he plucked the strip of cloth from his pocket. “Darling, I thought perhaps we could return to your theatre tonight. One of the dancers dropped this and I fear that I completely forgot to return it in our haste to depart last evening!”

 

The girl’s smile faded. “Oh. I’m so sorry, I’m afraid she’s...he’s... _they’re_ gone. It was the troupe’s last night in _Sankt-Piter-burkh.”_

 

_...If you can make the connection._

 

No. He didn’t believe in prophecy. It was a coincidence, nothing more.

 

“Ah. A shame. I rather enjoyed their performance,” he murmured, stuffing the scarf back into his pocket.

 

“There are other troupes. We could go more often,” the girl replied, something wistful stirring in the back of her eyes. 

 

He swallowed, shoving down the strange sense of loss and disappointment that had flooded through him. “We will my dear, we will.”

 

No, he did _not_ believe in prophecy…

 

But the scarf stayed with him the rest of his life, a reminder to take chances. 

 

To never again miss the connection.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was kind of my deep breath before the storm, so fair warning, Violet is the final chapter of the past life arc. But, that means we're almost to their 'present' lives! 
> 
> Also, fun fact, the prediction made by Geor...er...the 'Seer' is based on an actual fortune I was told by a palm reader in Barcelona when I was 17! She told me I'd one day meet a 'dark haired foreigner, with whom I'd see the world'. Her fortune came true ;-) Indigo is associated with fortune telling in some places, so I thought it'd be cool to incorporate it.
> 
> Also, I wrote this before Sarazanmai came out and when I went back to reread it, I kind of giggled. Make those connections people!
> 
> Thank you all for your comments and kudos and for giving this heartaching little journey a shot!


	7. That Violet Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our unnamed heroes meet again as the whiskey flows in Prohibition Era Chicago.
> 
> A few familiar faces join them for the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, in many ways, my favorite. It's also one of the most emotional in many ways, so, hang onto those fuzzy blankets. 
> 
> Chapter warning for period typical racism.

_He didn’t remember Russia. Not really. He’d only been a child when his parents had packed up their most precious possessions and their only child in the middle of the night, fleeing Petrograd alongside many of their countrymen to a faraway industrial city on the edge of a lake that might as well have been an ocean. Wealthy under the tsarist rule, his family had left as just one of hundreds of desperate groups of poor immigrants seeking a foothold in this strange place, far from revolutions, far from wars._

 

_Far from home, though not so far from the consequences._

 

_He’d all but forgotten the early idyllic life in his home country. He’d all but forgotten the fear and panic of the Revolution. Instead, he remembered most vividly the beat and the hustle of Chicago, this city of politics and music and industry, filled with soaring buildings and violence and beauty. And now, 12 years after fleeing with his family in a mire of fear and confusion, he knew he would forever remember tonight._

 

_Because tonight, he had met the most beautiful boy in the world._

 

***

The Green Mill Gardens had a reputation in the city. Of course, whether it was a good reputation or a bad one depended on who you asked. 

 

The majority of the patrons had loose wallets and looser morals, though many were there less for the ‘see and be seen’ aspect and more for…

 

Well. 

 

The Green Mill Gardens had music. And _dancing_. That the whiskey was cheap and plentiful was merely a happy coincidence for many of the young men and women that graced the dance floors, happy to forget the real world for a few precious hours. Not to say that they didn’t imbibe.

 

Some of them more than others.

 

For example, the disheveled vision dancing with loose-limbed abandon in the corner of the crowded space. Dark hair, so black it was stained almost purple by the lighting, stuck damply to the boy’s forehead, his eyes closed as he moved to the frantic beat of the house band, high cheekbones and full lips completing the lovely picture. The dancer’s dark features stood out for more than just his beauty though; he was clearly a member of one of the tiny Asian communities scattered throughout the city, a rare sight here in a club dominated by the white community members. 

 

Of course, he was just as much of an outsider as the other man, the Russian acknowledged to himself. Even if he blended in with his fair hair and pale skin, he wasn’t American in the way the rest of the young folk carelessly drinking and laughing around him were. His coin spent the same, though, and his father’s rise to prominence at one of the bigger shipping companies meant he had plenty to spare. He spent some of it now, beckoning for a pair of old fashioneds before making his way over to the crowd that had continued to grow around the beguiling dancer. 

 

He knew the band’s set list well enough to time his approach, drawing close to the little cluster of onlookers right as the band leader took a bow for their break. The group broke up into chattering knots of conversation, leaving the raven-haired young man alone to gasp for breath, pursing his lips as he glanced thoughtfully at the bar, clearly debating whether it was worth fighting the rush for a drink.

 

 _Perfect_ , he thought to himself, shaking his head to clear the strands of icy blond hair from his eyes before flashing his most charming grin towards the fascinating stranger. 

 

“Might I tempt you with a drink? You must be positively _parched_ ,” he crooned with a wink, trying not to wince at the hint of accent that crept in, no matter how hard he worked to smooth it from his voice. 

 

The boy gaped up at him in surprise, slicking his hand through his damp hair and smoothing it back from his face. 

 

_And bozhe moi, wasn’t that a lovely sight?_

 

“P-pardon?” the younger man stammered. “Do...do you mean...are you talking to _me?”_  

 

He allowed his grin to slide into a teasing smirk as he held out the cocktail. “Do you find it so very surprising?”

 

Amber-brown eyes narrowed in suspicion as the dancer reached out to accept the drink. “Yes,” the other man replied softly, before taking a judicious sip. 

 

He frowned, sipping from his own glass in confusion. He’d expected a bold personality to match the way the man moved to the music. This, though… “Why? You had quite the audience, earlier.” 

 

“You’ll note they stopped paying attention when the music ceased.” He paused, snorting. “I’m a novelty, so they tolerate me. But they don’t care to know me. They’d never acknowledge me out _there_ . I’m just…I’m _nothing_ to them. Entertainment,” he spat. “I’m not a _person_ …” He cut himself off, eyes wide as he gulped at his cocktail, seemingly shocked by the confession that had poured from his lips. 

 

“Because you don’t look like them?” he asked softly, earning a sour glance in response. He allowed his native accent to thicken slightly. “They’re all a pack of bluenoses. We’re all immigrants in this place. Some of us are just a bit more recent than others.” 

 

To his surprise, his observation earned him a blindingly lovely smile. “You sound like my sister,” the dancer said with a surprised laugh before offering a hand and his name in introduction. A few notes swirled in the air as the band warmed up and the raven-haired enigma tossed back his drink with alacrity before once again extending his hand. “Dance with me?”

 

***

 

One dance became several and so, too, did that first evening at the Green Mill Gardens lead to repetitions. After a few weeks, the staff and regulars began to recognize them, knowing smirks and winks flashing in their direction with something approaching regularity. Something approaching acceptance.

 

Or so he thought.

 

***

 

“He’s not here,” the barkeep said with an apologetic wince. 

 

He blinked, surprised. “Ah...sorry?”

 

“That Japanese bird you carry such a torch for. Popped in a bit earlier, but got into some beef with another patron. The hood was fair ossified, so we gave him the bum’s rush, but your fella was pretty upset. Took off pretty much right after…”

 

He swore, running a hand through his silver-blond hair and tugging slightly at the roots to calm himself. “Do you know which way he took off?” he asked, desperation lending franticness to his tone. 

 

The barkeep shrugged. “Back home, I’d guess. His folks run some sort of tea shop, I’d guess he went back that way.” He hooked his thumb vaguely in the direction of the tiny nearby community of Japanese and Chinese immigrants. 

 

Okay. There were only a handful of tea shops nearby, surely he could narrow it down… He nodded his thanks, throwing down a tip for the information before stepping back out into the warm air of a Chicago summer evening. The sky had entered that strange violet hour between dusk and true night, though he found himself blind to its beauty as he set his feet upon the path to a section of town he’d never visited. No matter how many of their evenings ended in lingering touches or even in stolen kisses hidden in the darkness of an abandoned doorway, he’d never been invited back to his paramour’s home. 

 

 _Nor,_ he thought wryly, _had he ever invited his paramour back to his own._

 

He could only imagine how his father would respond to such an action. Asian workers had begun to supplant Russians in some of the factories, a fact that had many grumbling in complaint. Foolish, all of it. People were people. He reminded himself of this as he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. 

 

Turning, he caught sight of a young Japanese woman staring at him, three dark haired little girls hiding behind her odd skirts. Some sort of traditional garb, he supposed. The effect was certainly not displeasing. He smiled disarmingly in the woman’s direction. “Please, miss, could you help me? I’m afraid I’m a bit lost!” He offered his love’s name, holding his smile determinedly when the trio of children erupted in excitement, causing their mother to hush them frantically.

 

“What business do you have with him?” the woman finally asked, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

 

“Please, miss. He’s a friend. I just wish to speak with him.” He kept his voice soft, hoping she could read his honest desire. 

 

She stared at him for a long moment, ignoring the tiny hands pulling hard at the ties around her garb. Finally, she nodded curtly, rattling off a set of directions. He thanked her fervently, bowing hastily before turning to depart. The path was somewhat meandering, and when he finally arrived, he had a sneaking suspicion that the woman had deliberately sent him on a roundabout path. 

 

A cool-eyed woman leaning against a column on the porch certainly seemed to be waiting for him, anyway. Her wide brown eyes resembled his dancer’s in shape and color, but the resemblance ended there. Where his lover was warmth and softness, like music incarnate, this woman was all sharp edges and brittle silence, unlike any woman he’d ever encountered. Her clothes, too, set her apart. No charming traditional garb or skirt and blouse for her. No, she wore loose trousers and a men’s work shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal surprisingly muscular forearms. A long slender pipe completed the bewildering picture, a thin plume of smoke rising above her head.

 

Noting his stare, the woman raised a brow, amusement flashing across her face for a brief instant before her scowl returned. “Are you the man I’ve to thank for my brother’s state this evening?” she drawled, a challenge in her dark gaze. 

 

He met her eyes solemnly. “In that I wasn’t there when he needed me, yes. I’m sorry.” 

 

She held his stare for another long moment, then pursed her lips as she looked away, pulling another long puff through her pipe. “ _Tch_ ,” she half-spat. “He deserves better than their bigotry and bullying. Better than this _life_.” Her voice was gentler than her words, and he took it as an invitation to come closer. 

 

“He _does_ ,” he said earnestly. “He deserves _everything._ ”

 

“Something we agree on,” she muttered under her breath. After another long moment, she stepped back, indicating the door with her chin. “Go on.” 

 

He smiled in relief, stepping past the odd woman and towards the door. A hand on his arm stopped him for a moment and he turned, one brow raised in query.

 

“Hurt him and they’ll never find your body.”

 

He was fairly certain she was bluffing. 

 

He was also fairly certain he’d never risk finding out.

 

***

 

It was as if he’d passed some sort of test that night. They didn’t speak about what had chased the dancer from the Green Mill Gardens, but the Japanese man slowly opened more of his heart after that. Their nights were split between the tea house and the dance hall, between sweat-damp dances, public and private. 

 

They were equal, in many ways, each of them a fish out of water in the other’s world, each adapting and thriving despite the challenge.

 

It was bliss.

 

He should have known it couldn’t last. 

 

***

 

There were other places to dance. The Green Mill Gardens might have been the finest joint for whiskey and music, but it was far from the only one. In some, his lover even stood out a little less, as men and women from the melting pot of Chicago blended together in time to the rhythms of the band. 

 

Still, something about the Gardens kept drawing them back, the place where they first met holding an almost magnetic draw that was as dangerous as it was irresistible. He found himself thinking about the strange allure of the place as they left it one night, fingers tangled, sweaty hair clinging to their foreheads as they stepped into the cool night air. 

 

The sudden harshness of a throat being cleared broke through his quiet reverie. He paused, glancing down at his companion who still looked flushed from their earlier dancing. Though, with the way the Japanese man was staring down at his feet, maybe it wasn’t the dancing that had brought color to the young man’s cheeks.

 

“Hey there, _dorogoy,_ something on your mind?” he asked softly, marveling at the way the blush suddenly deepened. 

 

“I...I wanted...I have something for you,” came the stammered response. A flash of silver shone out in the dim lighting of the streetlamps. An open palm, a gleaming oval, a violet silk ribbon painting a slash of color against his love’s fair skin…

 

“Darling?”

 

“It’s…for your kindness. For…for the attention you’ve shown me…I’m sorry if it’s presumptuous, but I thought…”

 

He plucked the bright bit of metal from the dancer’s palm, flipping the latch on the locket. A solemn eyed portrait stared back at him, his beloved captured in all his raven-haired beauty.

 

“I saved my coin from the tea shop. I wanted…I wanted to give you something to show what you’ve meant to me…” The brilliant blush was back, highlighting the Japanese man’s perfect features.

 

His heart rushing with love, he cupped that face he so loved, tilting it up so that he could fit his lips against his darling’s. Leaning back, he murmured against the silky skin, “I’ll treasure it always, _lyubov moya."_

 

***

 

He knew something was wrong the moment he rounded the corner. The crowded street of onlookers, the barricade…yes, something had gone terribly wrong.

 

Shoving his way towards the front of the crowd, he grasped the arm of a fellow patron, a sandy-haired chap he recognized from his many nights on the Green Mill Garden’s dance floor. “What’s going on?” he managed to ask, struggling to keep his features composed.

 

“A raid. The Prohibition crew…Ness’s gang…”

 

His heart dropped and his hand clenched on the other man’s arm. “You saw it go down?” He grimaced at the reluctant nod. “A young Japanese lad, eyes like cinnamon…did…”

 

“The dancer you’re always with?”

 

It felt as if a hand had clenched around his throat, but he forced himself to nod.

 

“I’m so sorry. They took him away along with a few others. He’ll be down at the precinct station by now.”

 

***

 

“He wouldn’t want you to get dragged down alongside him,” his lover’s sister growled.

 

He’d gone straight to the tea shop, too terrified to face the Prohibition squad alone, too guilt-stricken to leave his darling’s family in the dark. Somewhere in a back room he could hear the wailing of a bereaved mother, the fierce murmurings of a father trying to hold his family together. 

 

Here, in this dimly lit room, he could hear the frantic beating of his own heart, the steady pacing of a worried sister, the _ktsss_ of a match as she lit her cigarette. Glancing over, he caught her grim expression in the flickering flame before it went out. 

 

“I should have insisted we go elsewhere after he was harassed, I should have been there earlier...maybe I could have talked them down, maybe I could have gotten him out of there…”

 

“Maybe you’d have gotten your ass hauled in with him. Might have been worse if you’d been there. You two don’t know the meaning of subtle and you know they don’t look kindly on people like us mingling with folk like you. Worse than the liquor, to them.” Her voice was as flat as her gaze as she interrupted him. She pulled a long drag from her cigarette, her cinnamon eyes, so very familiar, burning into him as she puffed. “This isn’t your fault.”

 

He startled at the matter-of-fact statement, but the woman continued. 

 

“He’d been going there long before you two met. He’s stubborn enough that he wouldn’t have let a spot of bullying keep him away for long. At least you gave him a reason to keep dancing, y’know?” She paused, another line of smoke dripping from her lips before she continued. “He’s like you. Sees people, not skin.”

 

“That’s how the world _should_ be,” he murmured, head still spinning as he tried to figure out a way to fix this situation.

 

“ _Hai._ It should. Maybe one day it will be,” the woman replied, stubbing out her cigarette. She turned, clearly intending to join her parents, but paused to look over her shoulder once more. “He loves you. I know that much. Don’t make this harder for him by getting dragged down, too.”

 

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I want to help. My father...I...I have money. I can help with the fines, bail…”

 

The woman’s sharp gaze turned almost pitying. “Right. Look. Why don’t you give it a few days, let things cool down a bit, hmm? We can talk about it then.” 

 

He nodded reluctantly, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. “Alright. I’ll see you in a few days then.”

 

***

 

The tea house was abandoned when he returned two days later. 

 

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised, though his heart felt as if it was devouring its way through his chest. He stared, unseeing, at the paper sign pasted up on the door. 

 

“They’re going back to Japan,” called a soft, high voice from behind him. He turned, spying the young mother, her triplets for once absent from her side. The woman’s gaze slid off of him, surveying the swaying curtains of the too-empty shop with a pensive air. 

 

“Did they say why?” he managed to ask, some distant part of him pleased at the steadiness of his tone.

 

Her eyes caught his, soft understanding writ clear on her face. “He’s being deported. Sent home. They’re going with him.”

 

He moved to rush past her, hesitating when she reached out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s not fair. They’re not _being_ fair. He can’t have even had a trial…”

 

She smiled sadly. “I don’t think they’re too worried about being _fair_.”

 

He grimaced, reaching up a hand to move his pale hair out of his eyes. “I can go there, we can make a new life.” 

 

The young woman shook her head mournfully. “They’re even less welcoming to foreigners there than here in some ways. Besides, where would you go? How would you find him? It’s a small nation, but not _that_ small.”

 

“You don’t know where they’re going?”

 

“I don’t. I’m sorry.”

 

He slumped, defeated. “Then it’s over. He’s gone.”

 

“The people we love are never truly gone from our lives, not as long as we remember them.”

 

He snorted indelicately. “What a lovely sentiment. I don’t want a _memory_ , I want _him._ I want a world that would let us dance. I want a place that would treat us the same, no matter where we are from or what we look like.” He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks as he spoke. 

 

A soft cloth wiped them away and he looked up. The woman smiled softly before pulling back. “Then build that world. So that those that come after you can dance, can love whom they wish… help _make_ it fair.”

 

***

 

He never saw his dancer again, except in dreams and in the slowly fading picture in the locket that never left his side. But there were other loves and other friends and he never stopped fighting for a world that would have allowed them to stay together. 

 

When he drifted to sleep for the last time, nearly sixty years later, one last heart shaped smile crossed his lips. Perhaps, perhaps when he woke again, his dancer would be there. 

 

***

 

A few years later, in a small town in Russia, a tiny boy with fine silver-blonde hair and bright blue eyes took his first breath.

 

His mother named him Victor.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? Good! *hands out hot tea and cookies*
> 
> Writing That Violet Hour was tough, because I knew it had to pack a punch, but it was also cathartic because...it's the end of the past life cycles! That's right, it's our skate bois in the final chapter!
> 
> That Violet Hour also had a lot of research that went into it. 
> 
> There really was a large group of Russians that settled in the Chicago area following the Russian Revolution and the fall of the Tsar (1917-1918); Victor would have been a pre-teen when his family fled. Additionally, there was a small enclave of Japanese settlers in the late 20s (only about 300). This tiny community started with the Columbian Exposition, when they came to help build the Japanese are of the Fair and never left!
> 
> The slang used in this chapter is real. According to my sources, 'Bird' was also originally slang for men and women, though it later became mostly used for women. 
> 
> The Green Mill Gardens was (and is!) a very real place that operated during Prohibition mostly thanks to its ties to Al Capone's gang (one of his men was part owner!) As far as I know it was never actually raided, so that's purely AU license. You can still visit the original Green Mill Gardens (Now the Green Mill) here in Chicago. It's a cash-only bar filled with the best jazz in town. Highly worth a trip. (Bonus trivia: This isn't the first time I've used the Green Mill! The skate crew takes a visit towards the end of my very first fic: Once and Future Kings.)
> 
> Finally, 'That Violet Hour' is another nod to Chicago which, as you may guess, is my hometown. 'The Violet Hour' lounge boasts some of the most amazing cocktails you'll ever find, all with a nod to pre-Prohibition and Prohibition era style.
> 
> ***
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this ride. One more chapter to go!


	8. Rainbow's End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Nikiforov thinks he knows what his future holds. But three little words from his new fiance put everything in doubt. Past, present and future collide as we reach the end of the rainbow. 
> 
> Let's end this.

“Victor Nikiforov is dead.”

 

He wasn’t sure why young Yurio’s snarled words had struck him so deeply. The boy had been trying to provoke him, he knew that, but surely the chill that had crawled down his spine at the pronouncement had been a coincidence. 

 

It had been the same chill that he’d felt when Yuuri had slid a ring onto his finger, the meaning clear though the traditional phrases had been replaced in typical Yuuri fashion. 

 

A good luck charm. Something for them both to have. Only Yuuri could manage to make a marriage proposal sound like a plea for Victor to remember him. As if Victor could _ever_ forget Yuuri. 

 

And yet that strange sensation of déjà vu, that glissando of premonitory fear that crept up his spine…

 

He shook his head, trying to clear the fey mood that had him in its grip. Today was the short program. Today he needed to be supportive and strong. As Yuuri’s coach. As Yuuri’s _fiancé_ .  He grinned a little. He was going to _marry_ that boy.

 

***

 

That same fey mood seemed to have infected his darling during the short program. Yuuri had thrown himself at the ice in a sort of iron-willed determination that had been _so_ close to technically perfect (just a brush of the hand on the ice, but still _so close)_ and yet…gone was the seductive minx. In his place had been a grim-eyed soldier. 

 

The PCS had reflected the change. 

 

Still. The free skate was where it really counted. Yuuri could still win this…and then he’d win his Nationals and Four Continents and Worlds and then Victor would drag him back to Hasetsu and marry him under the cherry blossoms, which would _surely_ cooperate in the name of true love. Anything else was unthinkable.

 

He shut the shower off, smiling at the soft sounds Yuuri made while shuffling around in the bedroom. He threw on the hotel’s fluffy robe and draped a towel around his neck before rejoining his lover. Yuuri was busy clicking through Instagram, despite having asked to talk after Victor’s shower. Probably about his performance today…though Victor had already made up his mind that he wouldn’t allow Yuuri to wallow in his placement. After all, Jimmy John from Canada had made much worse mistakes today. There was no sense in fixating on what couldn’t be changed.

 

Reluctantly, he nudged his fiancé out of his social media rambles. “So, Yuuri, you wanted to talk?” 

 

And ah, no, he wasn’t imagining the sudden tension as Yuuri gripped his phone tightly. “Right. Victor… after the Final…”

 

***

“Let’s end this.”

 

Other words had been spoken. Well, _shouted_ , if Victor was being honest. Tears had been shed—and wasn’t THAT the icing on the misery cake… Victor Nikiforov. _Crying_. In the end Yuuri had fled the room, mumbling some excuse about using the hotel’s gym, abandoning Victor to his heartache. 

 

He hadn’t known his Yuuri could be so cruel. 

 

_“Let’s end this."_

 

Victor lay back on the bed in a miserable huddle of self-pity, those words swirling in his mind. For some reason, the moment they’d left Yuuri’s lips, Victor’s heart had beat a desperate pattern, his thoughts screaming _‘not again.'_

 

Which made no sense. 

 

And yet, hadn’t there been that strange foreboding from the moment Yuuri had slipped the band of gold on his finger? That odd sense that the action had triggered an inevitable ending, despite every bit of evidence that this was permanent, that they were forever… 

 

Tears still streaming down his cheeks, Victor slipped into a restless doze.

 

***

 

_He stood alone before a wide mirror. He knew the face in the reflection, knew the icy blue eyes, the long silvery hair…_

 

_Wait._

 

_This wasn’t the Victor of here and now. And yet, despite the flowing hair… it wasn’t the youthful Victor Nikiforov that sometimes haunted his sleep either. No, this long-haired vision was grim and slightly older, hair tied back with a leather thong and his hands held out, beseeching…_

 

_Dripping with crimson blood._

 

_Victor backed away in horror, turning to flee only to slam heavily into someone. As he sat on the ground, winded, a gnarled hand appeared in his vision, mercifully clean of blood. He took it hesitantly, allowing an elderly man to help him to his feet. Nervously, he glanced behind him, relieved to find the mirror empty._

 

_A warm chuckle echoed in the empty room. “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the old man said soothingly._

 

_“Ah…it wasn’t you. Did you see…” the words died on Victor’s tongue as he took in the milkiness of the man’s eyes. “Sorry, I…I supposed you didn’t...” he trailed off awkwardly, earning another warm laugh._

 

_“Oh, never mind that. There are far worse things to lose than one’s vision, wouldn’t you agree, Victor?”_

 

_A strange chill raced down his spine, accompanied by a faint hint of recognition. “I’m sorry…do…do I know you?”_

 

_A serene smile crossed the aged man’s features and Victor blinked at the familiar heart shape. Dazed, he didn’t resist as he was gently turned to once again face the empty mirror. From above, a brilliant shaft of light suddenly illuminated the space. As the beam struck the glass, it split, a dazzling rainbow of color surrounding him. As suddenly as it appeared, the light was gone, leaving in its place a circle of silver-blond men._

 

_Victor spun slowly, staring at the familiar-yet-not faces. He absently noted that the old man had joined the circle, standing between the bloody-handed ‘Victor’ from before and a more cheerful ‘Victor’ in a stained apron._

 

_“Who are you?”_

 

_“Memories,” the youngest said, dapper in pin-striped slacks and violet suspenders._

 

_“Warnings,” spat the scarlet-spattered vision._

 

_“Reflections,” smiled another, a smear of emerald paint on one high cheekbone._

 

_The elderly man padded forward, his ochre robes swishing softly as he moved to pat Victor’s cheek. “You know who we are, Victor.”_

 

_“You’re me…” he whispered. “But…”_

 

_“He gave you a token, didn’t he?” said a well-dressed Victor, an indigo scarf clutched in his hand._

 

_“Something to remember him by, perhaps?” queried the apron-clad man._

 

_Victor held out a shaking hand, the gold band glinting in the light. At the same time, each of the other men held out their own hands, small objects displayed in their grasps. A braided red silk cord, a worn yellow book, a pressed cerulean tulip. The dapper young Victor stepped forward, hand out in offering. Victor took the glinting oval, finding it to be a silver locket on a thin purple ribbon. He glanced up, meeting the other man’s bright blue eyes for a moment before unclasping the latch._

 

_The dark, slicked back hairstyle was both familiar and strange, but the warm, wide eyes and plush mouth…_

 

_Yuuri stared up at him from a different time and place._

 

_“It’s all I had…after I lost him…” the younger Victor said, sorrow dripping from his words as he gently reclaimed the locket. “I never forgot him, but…”_

 

 _The elderly man came forward again, his pale milky eyes sending shivers down Victor’s spine. Despite his blindness, there was a thin boar’s hair brush clutched desperately in one hand. The token from_ his _Yuuri, surely. A gnarled hand settled gently on Victor’s shoulder._

 

 _“Victor Nikiforov. We have waited long enough to end this cycle. Do not make the same mistakes we..._ you... _have made in every other life.”_

 

 _Victor swallowed, glancing over at the younger version of himself clutching tight to a locket bearing Yuuri’s beloved features. “I don’t...I don’t know what to_ do. _Yuuri...he’s the one that’s running…”_

 

 _“So go_ after _him! Before it’s too late!” snarled the bloodied man from the mirror._

 

_Another version of himself smiled softly, that daub of paint still highlighting one cheek. “You already know what you need to do, we’re just...nudging you along a bit. He’s what you’ve been longing for...you know this dance, Victor.”_

 

_“Stammi Vicino, non te ne andare…” hummed the youngest man, eyes still glued to the locket._

 

_The blind man finished the phrase, “Ho paura di perditi…”_

 

 _“Fitting,” murmured the version clutching a pressed tulip. “_ _Partiamo insieme, ora sono pronto…”_

 

 _“You_ are _ready, ready to end this,” said the man clutching the silken indigo scarf. “Break the cycle. Make the connection.” He stepped towards Victor, reaching out and placing the scarf in the hand that Victor held out as if compelled._

 

_One by one, each of the other versions of himself stepped forward, adding their tokens to the pile. Lastly came the dapper young man, who dropped the locket on top and gently reached for Victor’s other hand. “It’s time Victor. Time to wake up…”_

 

***

 

“...Victor...wake up.” A gentle hand shook his shoulder and for a moment he resisted the call, struggling to catch the edges of the strange dream. 

 

“Vitya, please, wake up…” 

 

He blinked, the thin rays of early morning sunshine causing him to wince before widening his eyes in surprise. “Yuuri...you came back!”

 

Yuuri flushed before leaning away. Victor subconsciously chased him, desperate to stay close to his beloved. “O-of course I came back,” Yuuri stammered. “I told you I wanted to go for a run. I just needed some time to think…”

 

The panic of the night before came roaring back, mingling with the remnants of his strange dream. He surged forward, caging Yuuri in with his arms. “Time to think about what?” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation. 

 

“A-about whether or not I should retire. And...and about us,” Yuuri admitted. 

 

Heart in his throat, Victor couldn’t help babbling. “Yuuri, _dorogoy_ , there’s no reason to make rash decisions…we...we can figure it out after the free skate…take some time to mull it over…” 

 

Yuuri nodded as if Victor’s ramblings were perfectly understandable. “Okay. Let’s...let’s think about it.”

 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was _time_. Time for Victor to figure out how to stop this wheel from turning…

 

***

 

In the end, it took a world record, Yuri Plisetsky, and a silver medal to save the day. 

 

They lay tangled together on the floor of the arena, long after the cameras had grown bored of them, their foreheads pressed together as they laughed happily. 

 

Yuuri would still compete. As would Victor. And they’d do it together, starting with a move to Victor’s St. Petersburg apartment. 

 

The Russian coach (and soon to be _ex_ -ex-skater) felt giddy relief as he caught his fiance’s lips in yet another kiss. “I’m so happy I could burst,” he murmured into Yuuri’s skin. “I was so afraid you would leave me…”

 

Yuuri pulled away, startled. “Oh. Oh, _Vitya_ ,” he breathed lowly. “Love, that’s...that’s _never_ what I meant!”

 

Victor blinked in confusion. “But...but you said...you said…”

 

“Let’s end this,” Yuuri recited, the words still causing a hiccup in Victor’s heart. “Darling, I meant you _coaching_ me! Not our _relationship!_ Is that why you were so upset?” 

 

Victor bit his lip and nodded reluctantly. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Vitya. I never meant for you to think that. Especially after I’d given you a ring! You must have been so confused!” Yuuri burrowed into Victor’s arms, pulling their bodies together. “I’m not going anywhere that you can’t follow. Not ever. I love you. So, so much.” He fitted his lips against Victor’s, and all seemed right with the world. 

 

And on those occasions when the strange dream would return to haunt Victor in the years to come, all it took was a glance at Yuuri, asleep at his side, to still the residual panic and allow him to remember that he loved, and was loved in return. 

 

After all, it was only ever a dream. 

 

***

_Two years later_

_***_

 

Victor smiled when he heard the sound of the door closing and the _click-clack_ of nails on the hardwood. Abandoning his coffee, he made his way out of the kitchen and towards the living room to greet both his pups and his darling husband. Yuuri smiled as he approached, leaning up eagerly to receive Victor’s welcoming kiss. He laughed as Makka and Hanyu wriggled their way in between them, equally eager for their own share of Victor’s affections. He knelt down obligingly, delighting in Hanyu’s puppy kisses and Makka’s calmer but no less excited cuddles. 

 

Victor glanced up, meaning to ask Yuuri about the walk, and found his breath catching in his throat at the achingly fond look in his husband’s eyes as he stood watching the trio on the floor. Even now, after all the competitions, after moving, after the wedding, after Hanyu and all of the settled domesticity of their lives, Yuuri still took his breath away. Every damned day. He stood, gently extricating himself from the pile of excitable fur, and crossed to Yuuri, pulling him close in a heated embrace. 

 

After a long moment, Yuuri pulled back, peering up at Victor through lowered lashes, voice husky as he spoke. “Wow. I need to go check the mail more often if that’s my reward.” 

 

Victor kissed the laugh from Yuuri’s lips, delighting in the feel of the lithe frame pressed close against him. “Just thinking about how much I love you,” he murmured, tangling his hand in the long, thick hair at the nape of Yuuri’s neck. After a long moment, Yuuri finally pulled away, heedful of the patiently waiting dogs. 

 

“I’ll get the kids fed, can you grab the mail from the side table?” he called over his shoulder, leading the dancing pups into the kitchen for their evening meal. 

 

Victor snagged the pile, sorting idly through it as he trailed after his little family. A padded envelope caught his eye and he couldn’t help the little pout of disappointment when he saw Yuuri’s name on the front. “Phichit sent you something,” he said as he entered the kitchen, waving the envelope in his husband’s direction. Yuuri finished pouring the kibble, then brushed his hands off before reaching for the little package. Victor busied himself opening his own thin stack of bills and solicitations. 

 

“Oh, huh,” Yuuri said, causing Victor to glance up. Yuuri’s brow was furrowed as he read a sheet of cartoon hamster printed note paper, his free hand cupped loosely around some small object. At Victor’s inquisitive little noise, Yuuri smiled. “Phichit apparently met up with Leo and Guang Hong after Skate America and they spent a couple days playing tourist in Chicago. They were in some little antique shop and Peach said he saw this and absolutely had to get it for me.” He held his hand out in Victor’s direction, dropping something small and silver into his palm. 

 

Victor’s heart stuttered. A locket, delicate and oval, a hint of tarnish marring its surface...something half-forgotten stirred in the back of his mind, as memories of a hazy dream became startlingly clear. Yuuri didn’t seem to notice anything amiss, still reading the note. “Peach swears that the picture looks just like me,” he continued, scepticism clear in his voice. 

 

Hand shaking, Victor thumbed open the locket, icy fear crawling up his spine. The image was more faded than it had been in that long ago dream, but the wide, dark eyes were still there, gazing up at him from nearly 100 years ago. 

 

“Wow,” Yuuri laughed from beside him, startling Victor from his daze. “I guess it does kind of look like me if you squint. I wonder who he was…” 

 

Victor snapped the locket shut, trying to still his racing heart. Even if the dream _was_ real, he’d broken the cycle, hadn’t he? Yuuri was his and he was Yuuri’s. Still…

 

“Vitya? Everything alright? Love, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! It’s...it’s just some silly coincidence,” Yuuri said, his voice filled with love and concern as he brushed Victor’s bangs out of his eyes. 

 

Victor looked up at Yuuri’s wide, dark eyes, warm as they gazed at him with affection, here in the kitchen of the home they’d made together. He nuzzled against Yuuri’s palm, setting the locket down on the table before pulling his husband close. “I love you. I’m never letting you go, you know that, right?” he asked seriously. “You’re stuck with me forever, okay?” 

 

“Hmmm, I suppose I’m okay with that. You _are_ kind of cute, I suppose,” Yuuri replied teasingly, whooping with laughter when Victor bent to scoop him up in his arms. “Vitya! What are you doing! Put me down!” 

 

Victor smiled down at his lover as he carried him to their bedroom. “I feel the sudden need to remind you exactly how much I love you,” he purred, the last bit of icy fear finally melting away as Yuuri blushed in his arms. 

 

Maybe the past he’d dreamed was real. But so, too, was his present. And as he smiled against Yuuri’s kiss-bitten lips, he knew.    

 

This. 

 

This was his forever. 

 

  
  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your incredible kindness and patience with this story. I know it can't have been easy to watch our boys fall in love only to be torn apart so many times! Believe me, it was hard as a writer. 
> 
> I was given a very simple prompt for the Bang that amounted to: Past lives, Victor pov, each vignette centering around a color of the rainbow. As I was researching the various meanings of the colors, I came up with the two central concepts that defined this story: 1) The boys wouldn't be able to stay together until the end (because I am a cruel, cruel being) and 2) Surely their names would be different in their past lives so...I couldn't use ANY names until the end (because that cruelty apparently extends to myself). 
> 
> It became a challenge to come up with different and semi-logical reasons for them to keep having to be separated, but it was the lack of names that became a real source of frustration for me. There were several times that I almost gave up on the concept and I'm ever so grateful to my dear Beta reader, PeppyBismilk for her constant reassurances and cheerleading! Her comment on the final line of That Violet Hour was just "HE HAS A NAME!!!!" 
> 
> So yeah, it was nice to finally be writing OUR boys. And to give them the happy ending they deserved all along. 
> 
> Thank you, once again, for the dozens of comments and reactions you left along this journey. It's like a little hug each time I see one pop up! ❤😍❤ 
> 
> This concludes my 'official' contribution to the 2019 Yuri on Ice Reverse Big Bang; but I'm pinch hitting for another prompt which still has two chapters to go, so be sure to check out 'I Dream at Night (I Can Only See Your Face)' as well. I also have a new project in collaboration with PeppyBismilk that'll be launching soon. 
> 
> Follow me on Twitter (@SongbirdsaraW) to keep up to date with new stories and updates on old ones!
> 
> See you Next Level!

**Author's Note:**

> Red was the theme for this chapter, and I chose to start with the darker aspects of this color. Future chapters will explore many themes and vaguely historical eras. I've kept the stories to a blend of eras and time periods, so while they are inspired by real time periods, please do not look for these to be truly historically accurate!
> 
> Art to come at a later date!


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